The Clockwork Stranger
by Hellie Ace
Summary: Bored and popular, Alfred F. Jones has almost nothing to worry about in his final year of high school. His only concern is making sure the art student, Arthur Kirkland, knows exactly who he is. But Arthur's strange drawings are more than scribbles; Alfred is about to live Arthur's darkest secret. For those who stare too long into the abyss may find it staring back at them. USUKUS
1. Part I

**The Clockwork Stranger**

**Part I**

**WARNING: Explicit rape, gore, and violence. Homophobia and offensive terminology. Demonology, anti-religion, sacrilege, satanic worship and demon summoning. Flaying and animal abuse/cruelty. Extreme language, drug, tobacco, and alcohol abuse.**

**Hey kids, it's been awhile since I updated. But here is the larger project I've been working on to bring you a bit of horror this Halloween. This story is based heavily on demonology and the infamous Creepy Pasta/ Marble Hornets terror - Slenderman. **

**The project is divided into 7 parts, and every day I will post a new part. Call it a Halloween week sort of deal. Each part will progressively become more and more horrific until the final piece is completed. **

**But that leads me to the warning. Here it is again. Please, this is not for the squeamish or light of heart. **

**WARNING: Explicit rape, gore, and violence. Homophobia and offensive terminology. Demonology, anti-religion, sacrilege, satanic worship and demon summoning. Flaying and animal abuse/cruelty. Extreme language, drug, tobacco, and alcohol abuse.**

**The cover was done by the extremely talented Ahr0. **

**and Beta'd by the lovely Kay. :)**

**Without further delay, I give you the opening to this little nightmare... see you at the bottom.**

* * *

**Part I**

* * *

Rolling thunderclouds darkened the coming morning as they haunted the sky. Flashes of bright, white lightning splintered the air, shattering the blackness overhead with brief bursts of illumination. Sheets of piercing cold rain poured down on the small Ohio town and the gated suburban neighborhood where Alfred F. Jones happened to live. The ferocious storms had started to make their way across the state the previous night and were now hovering over the southern end of Ohio on that early Monday morning.

A deafening boom of thunder rattled the sky, making Alfred's house shudder and startling the sleeping teenager awake. He clutched at his comforter for a second, bleary eyes nervously darting around his messy room. When another flash of lightning shone through his window, showing that there was nothing to fear, Alfred settled down and simply listened to the sound of rain pummeling his home with fat droplets. Being startled awake by loud noises was much easier to deal with when he knew what was causing them, or rather, what wasn't. Alfred could handle a thunderstorm just fine.

He blinked a few times to clear sleep from his eyes before rolling onto his side to reach for his glasses. He snatched them off the top of his nightstand and fumbled to get them on his face as his sleepy nerves groggily responded to his mind's wishes. It took him a few minutes to muster up the will to actually get out of bed though. While he did, he stared up at the stucco ceiling and the lazy twirling of his fan. He wasn't thinking about anything in particular, but he was thinking his general jumble of early morning concerns. Was he hungry? What time was it? Should he wear basketball shorts or jeans to school today? But wait; hadn't he been having a dream before the thunder had so rudely awoken him? Alfred closed his eyes again, trying to conjure up the memory of his dream again. He'd been running, but why, he couldn't remember. Had he been at one of his track meets? No, he distinctly remembered it being very dark in his dream; the track meets didn't go through the night. So why-

Suddenly, his alarm clock came to life and started blaring the most obnoxious noise to wake up its owner. Alfred growled, slamming his hand down on the off button to silence the annoying device. He glared death at the glowing red numbers alerting him of the time. Not only because of the fact that it had interrupted his thoughts, but also because it meant that he actually had to get up and get ready for school. Well, if he wanted to get there on time.

Alfred dragged himself out of bed, the comforter spilling off the mattress as the groggy teenager clumsily rose to his full height. He glanced down at the sheets bunched around his bare feet before arching to stretch. He felt the satisfying tug at his muscles and the popping in his joints as he stood on the balls of his feet, arms above his head and back curving sharply. With a loud yawn, and a satisfied roll of his broad shoulders, Alfred made his way to the bathroom that was connected to his bedroom.

He leaned his broad arms on the granite countertop, staring at his sleepy expression in the mirror. A clumsy hand came up to rub at his glass-blue eyes and then run through his tangled, golden hair. He brushed out the few knots with his fingers, wincing at the stinging tug at his scalp as he brushed through his locks. Once he had successfully groomed his hair to its natural part, he moved on to washing his hands before grabbing his toothbrush and a half-empty tube of toothpaste. Alfred brushed his teeth, spit, rinsed and then wiped the excess water from his face with a towel that hung on the wall behind him.

He returned to his room, stripped off his old boxers, put on fresh ones and then moved to his spacious closet. He pushed around the clothes hanging from the top shelf until he finally concluded that he didn't really care what he looked like today; a simple pair of dark jeans and a thin cotton shirt under his favorite bomber jacket would suffice. He pulled out his choice of attire, clambering into the jeans and fussing with the seams until he finally forced them to fit properly. The shirt was much easier and his bomber jacket slid on with a natural fit that Alfred loved. He rubbed at his upper arm through the thick, worn leather. The familiar feel of it settled the teenager as the rain, thunder and lightning continued to assault the Ohio sky.

Alfred glanced at his alarm clock after a few moments of daydreaming, and sighed. He had to leave now or he would never find a good parking spot at school. Grabbing his keys, backpack and a Pop-tart from his kitchen cabinet, Alfred shouted a goodbye to his parents from the front door before exiting the house. He dashed to his car sitting in their long, circular driveway. The teenager practically dove into the driver seat and slammed the door shut before sighing. He slung his backpack into the backseat before settling into the interior of the pristine, caramel-leather seat of his sleek Mustang. The car had been a gift for obtaining his driver's license. The sleek blue car was painted with white racing stripes and was Alfred's pride and joy. Nobody ate or drank in it, the leather was cleaned weekly, and not a speck of dust could be seen across the dashboard. It was the total opposite of his room, which looked like a whirlwind tore through it on a daily basis. But cars and rooms were different. Everyone saw your car, only best friends and family members saw your room, and they didn't mind the mess most of the time.

Alfred shoved the key into the ignition, smiling contentedly as the engine roared to life with an impressive growl. The engine rumbled at he shifted into drive and sped out of his driveway, determined to make it to school before anyone dared to take his usual parking spot, hazardous road conditions be damned.

The drive was short, since Alfred lived within four miles of the school, but it felt like an eternity as slow drivers baring his way plagued Alfred. Honestly, why did the rain make people drive like idiots? The speed limit clearly said forty-five miles an hour -which meant fifty-five to Alfred- , not crawling down the one-lane street that was the only entrance to Blackwood High School.

By the time the annoyed teenager pulled into the parking lot he was quietly fuming. But what really pissed him off as he swung the car to pull into his spot was that there was someone already parked there. It was an older, tuxedo black BMW. Alfred snarled his frustration before straightening out the Mustang and driving around to the next closest available spot. As he killed the engine and grabbed his bag, Alfred felt the distinct urge to gouge his keys into the offending vehicle in his spot.

Getting out the car, he had to walk right past it, but restrained himself. He wasn't about to stand in the pouring rain to key some asshole's car. It wasn't worth ruining the leather of his jacket, and so he dashed into the school with a malicious sneer on his face. Besides, he knew exactly who the BMW belonged to, and he was going to give that person a serious warning. Nobody parked in senior varsity football, track and baseball star, Alfred F. Jones' spot. Nobody.

* * *

**~TCS~**

* * *

"ARTHUR FUCKIN' KIRKLAND!"

Arthur raised his head off his folded forearms, and looked up sleepily. His emerald eyes blinked in confusion for a moment before they settled on the source of the loud shout of his name. His expression switched to one of apathy as he locked eyes with Alfred's piercing blues, smoldering with rage, before dropping his head back to his arms. Sleep was far more valuable than dealing with the pompous athlete.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, Kirkland!"

"What the hell do you want, Alfred? Can't you see I'm trying to sleep?" Arthur's muffled retort came after a few moments of pause, making the rest of their first period class focus their attention on the impending fight. Alfred was known for his hot temper, and had been in two fights already this year: one with a rival team at a baseball game, and another with a student who had mistaken his car for a freshman's and tagged it with red paint. Alfred had shoved the first kid, and slammed the other's head into a nearby car. Giving Arthur Kirkland - resident socially awkward art student - a good beating certainly wasn't out of the question.

"You parked in my spot, asshole," Alfred growled out, dropping his backpack beside his desk and marching over to Arthur's seat by the window. When the older student didn't respond, Alfred slammed his hands down on the desk, making it rattle from the force.

"You listening to me?"

"No," Arthur huffed, content to keep his eyes shut. As far as he was concerned, Alfred wasn't much of a threat. Sure he could bench press his own weight, was known for his temper, and loved to torment the less socially accepted, but Arthur had known Alfred since elementary school. He was far more bark than bite.

Arthur raised his head when Alfred's heavy hand grabbed his shoulder. His bleary emerald eyes blinked up at him for a moment before Arthur shrugged off the rough grip.

"Sit down, Alfred. It's not the end of the world."

"Fuck you!" Alfred growled but moved to his seat when their first period teacher entered the room and gave Alfred a stern glare. The older woman had absolutely no tolerance for the cocky jock and made that very obvious.

The blue-eyed teenager dumped himself in his desk and bowed his head, wringing his hands. Fuck Arthur! That scrawny runt didn't know whom he was messing with! Arthur usually kept to himself, so Alfred generally left him alone, but if the shorter blond was going to be an ass about taking his spot, then Alfred wasn't going to play nice anymore. However, something else bothered Alfred: the fact that Arthur had totally brushed him off as if he were nothing more than a speck of dust had infuriated the jock. Even if Arthur was going to be rude about it, he could have at least treated Alfred like an actual threat – because he was – but no. Arthur clearly didn't see just how much social hell he could put Arthur through. Even if he didn't want to have another session of out of school suspension for being in a fight, there were others ways to thoroughly crush people.

Alfred decided he would brood on it later, as the teacher had already begun her review lesson on matrices, and Alfred really needed to pay attention to this. He had ambitions of being an engineer, and paid particularly close attention in his math, physics and drafting classes. The rest was totally useless as far as he was concerned. Who needed to speak French when you could live in America building gigantic skyscrapers?

The class dragged on, as the lesson was ridiculously easy, and Alfred quickly grew bored with the simple example problems. He had finished the entire homework assignment written on the board as well by the time the bell rang to signify the end of class. Shoving the hefty calculus textbook into his backpack, Alfred prepared to head to his locker, drop off some of his books, and then head to homeroom.

Arthur shoved past him just as he stood to sling his backpack over his shoulders. The emerald-eyed man muscled past the much taller blond without so much as a glance of acknowledgment. It was as if he were simply walking down the hall, weaving through passing traffic, without really seeing anyone.

Alfred had to resist the urge to stick out his foot to trip the skinny blond that so annoyingly ignored him. It wasn't as if Arthur ignoring Alfred was new, but today, after taking his parking spot, Alfred had decided he had had enough of it. People didn't ignore Alfred, and he wasn't about to let Arthur be the black sheep in his large crowd of social acknowledgment.

He made his way to his locker with his head bowed and eyes narrowed against the rain as he darted to the other side of the school. He entered the hallway lined with lockers, found his, unlocked it, and shoved some of his textbooks into it rather roughly. After homeroom came his AP English Literature class, so he grabbed his assigned reading (_King Lear_, Shakespeare) and dashed back into the rain. He took the stairs to the second story of the high school two at a time. His bounding strides quickly carried him to his homeroom class, and he dramatically slid into his seat just before the tardy bell rang.

The teacher merely glanced up from his computer, mentally counted to make sure all of the students were here, entered it in his attendance book, and then went back to his work.

Alfred grinned at a student across the room from him that had chuckled at Alfred's impressive entrance. It had turned almost everyone's attention on him, if only for a brief moment: all except for one.

Arthur was staring out the window with a bored expression, his cheek cradled in his palm, never once breaking his concentration on the beads of rain pelting the glass.

Alfred felt his hands clench into fists as Arthur blatantly continued to ignore him. How had Alfred not noticed this before? The emerald-eyed teenager probably hadn't said two words to him since their brief friendship in the third grade, but it had never really occurred to Alfred until now. Maybe it was because Arthur blended so seamlessly into the background. He didn't talk to anyone, didn't bother people, never raised his hand in class and took mostly higher-level classes with the brightest students. He was on the tennis and swim team, but they weren't really anything Blackwood High bragged about. Winning state championships in football and never missing anything less then the finals at districts in baseball was what the school was known for. But Arthur didn't have either of those under his belt. He was practically invisible, and he seemed to like it that way. Yes. That had to be why Alfred hadn't been bothered until now. It had taken the bastard stealing his parking spot for Alfred to notice him. Well, he had shown some interest when Arthur had first driven to school in his older BMW with its beautiful white leather interior, but that had been interest in the car, _not_ Arthur himself.

Arthur must have felt Alfred's eyes practically melting holes into the side of his skull because he tilted his head to glance at Alfred. The blue-eyed teenager felt a smug grin light up his face as he locked eyes with the smaller blond. Arthur made a scoffing noise before resettling his gaze back to the rain.

Alfred couldn't help the cocky feeling of victory that fluttered about in his gut. It hadn't been much, but Arthur had acknowledged his presence, seen him as maybe worth his time before recognizing his mistake and looking back out the window.

"Don't park in my spot again, got it?" Alfred said, still glaring at the side of Arthur's head.

"I'll park wherever I want to," Arthur responded curtly and dryly. "Maybe if you got to school earlier, you wouldn't have to worry about that."

"You're an ass! I _always_ park there!"

"Not today," Arthur retorted, glancing back at Alfred again from beneath his dark gold lashes. It was an entirely bored expression, as if this were nothing more than some silly, immature game to the older blond. It pissed Alfred off, and he sent Arthur the deadliest death glare he could. Arthur didn't even look fazed.

The furious teenager was about to say something else, but the bell rang to dismiss them from homeroom, cutting Alfred off. He grabbed his backpack in a fuming huff and stormed out of the room. Arthur cocked a brow at Alfred's poor attitude, and then grabbed his own schoolbooks, before leisurely making his way to English class, which he unfortunately shared with Alfred.

English passed without any further contact between the two, though Arthur could feel Alfred's furious glare trained on him for the majority of class. It didn't bother him though. Alfred might have thought himself intimidating, but Arthur had two older brothers that could have easily put the blue-eyed teenager in the hospital without breaking a sweat. Dealing with them all his life had eliminated the fear of arrogant jocks like Alfred. Besides, Alfred wasn't the rough type. He came from a wealthy family, neatly groomed, and was as cocky as a tomcat. The most damage he could hope to inflict would probably be trying to smear Arthur's non-existent social status. The emerald-eyed student couldn't help but smirk at the thought. It was the one good thing about being almost entirely friendless and practically invisible; drama was never an issue.

The rest of the day flew by. Alfred didn't share any other classes with Alfred until the end of the day during their art class. But by then, Alfred seemed to have entirely forgotten the ordeal from that morning. He didn't look at Arthur once during the entire period, preferring to work over the drafting table near the front of the room while Arthur dug through his backpack for his Sharpie markers. Arthur grabbed a sheet of thick, white paper, and began to quickly sketch out a design he had been thinking about in biology that afternoon. The Sharpie markers glided across the paper neatly as Arthur focused entirely on the intricate design. Simple shapes, complex, weaving lines, and Arthur wasn't entirely sure what it was, but it reminded him of a goldfish somehow.

Only when he felt the presence of someone standing behind him did Arthur stop to actually sit back and observe. He didn't bother to look back at whoever was behind him, though they were standing oddly close. He could feel the slight brush of the person's shirt against his neck, and the warm heat of their body permeating the tiny space between them.

"I never knew you could draw so well," an annoyingly familiar voice chimed, sounding both slightly envious, yet very much impressed. "I mean, you've got a really weird choice in colors, but the design is cool."

It was true, Arthur really hadn't been paying attention to the color of Sharpie he picked every time he started a new portion of the design. Glancing over it, he winced as the lime green melded with scarlet and the yellows seemed to turn a sick, swampy green as they crossed over the black lines as well.

"Oh, well, I wasn't exactly going for a brilliant color theory," Arthur muttered, sliding the paper away. "But what's such a beloved jock like you complimenting me for, hmmm?" Arthur bit back sarcastically, smirking when he saw Alfred leer at him from the edge of his vision.

"I was going to ask if you knew where the protractor managed to disappear to," he growled low in his throat, still leering at Arthur. "But I guess I should have known better than asking you." He walked past, brows furrowed in annoyance.

The emerald-eyed man shook his head slowly before returning to his work. Too lazy to go find another sheet of paper, Arthur simply put one hand down on the table, grabbed a green Sharpie and began to doodle another design on the back of his hand.

He was focused so intently on the design that he startled when he felt Alfred put his hands on the back of the chair and lean over to see what Arthur was drawing. The boy clearly had no concept of personal space, as Arthur could very clearly feel the boy's body heat seeping right through their clothes, warming the older's back. The golden cross Alfred wore around his neck dangled down to brush the nape of Arthur's neck as well.

"What is that? Some sort of circle to summon the devil or something?" Alfred asked, staring down at the intricate circle Arthur had drawn. A sort of 'X' like shape was drawn through the center, surrounded by larger circles and swirling designs that interlinked the entire thing. Arthur withdrew his hand, holding it against his chest and away from Alfred's piercing blue eyes.

"No, you idiot! Demon summoning circles look nothing like that."

Alfred scoffed, straightening up to his full height. The cross on his neck glittered under the sharp fluorescent lights above them.

"I should have figured you would know about freaky stuff like that. You probably worship the devil or something, don't you?"

"No. I don't believe in your God or your ridiculous devil either," Arthur spat back, feeling his chest ache. How dare this cocky bastard imply such a thing! He may not have believed in organized religion, but Alfred had no idea what Arthur had seen or knew about, the boy didn't know what he was talking about. Arthur would never have the audacity or the suicidal notion to draw a demon-summoning circle on his hand, or anywhere public for that matter. Not after-

"Figures," Alfred shrugged, disgust lacing the single word with enough venom that made Arthur involuntarily flinch. He quickly moved away from Arthur without another word, expression set in stone-cold apathy as he moved back to the drafting table, protractor in hand.

"Idiot…." Arthur muttered before returning to the symbol on his hand.

* * *

**~TCS~**

* * *

When Arthur came to school the next day, being sure _not_ to park in Alfred's spot, he was surprised by all the sudden attention he received. As he locked the doors to his BMW, he glanced up to see a couple sitting on the toolbox of a pick-up truck staring at him. One he recognized as the kicker for Blackwood's varsity football team, but the girl he didn't know. He blinked in surprise, but they quickly returned to making out, leaving Arthur to wonder just what had distracted them in the first place. He couldn't help but glance at his reflection in his side mirrors, wondering if maybe he had something on his face. But the mirror revealed nothing unusual, so Arthur shrugged it off before heading into the building.

Near the front gates of the school, where the center courtyard opened up, was the usual morning hangout for the baseball team. Only a few of them were assembled this early, but the three that stood there all turned their heads when Arthur stepped across the threshold. The emerald-eyed student felt an uncomfortable heat burn the back of his neck as they glared at him. He quickly decided that he wouldn't go to the art room this morning, as it meant he would have walk far too close to the baseball players.

Instead, he turned, and headed for his locker hallway, trying to ignore the glares practically burning through his back. He couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief as the door to the locker hallway finally slammed shut behind him. Luckily, the hall was empty, sparing Arthur from any more unwelcome attention.

As he dialed the number of his combination in, he couldn't help but wonder what was warranting all of this sudden interest. As he turned the dial to the final number, he looked at the back of his hand. The Sharpie symbol hadn't entirely washed off from his shower this morning, and the insignia's faded ink made his stomach drop. Had the other students seen the design and wondered the same thing as Alfred had in art class the previous day? But why would that matter? Arthur drew these kinds of things all over his hands and arms on a daily basis -much to the dismay of his mother-, so it shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone today.

As he pulled out his calculus book, he heard the door to the locker hallway open. Arthur glanced sidelong as one of the football players walked in. He had two of his friends trailing behind him, all three looking decidedly disgusted as they passed Arthur.

The emerald-eyed student clenched his hands into fists instinctively, dropping his calculus book in the process. It struck the tile floor with a loud bang, startling all four of them. Arthur quickly snapped out of his sudden rage, knelt, and picked up his book.

"Sorry…" He muttered subconsciously.

"Yeah, you'd better be," one of the football player's friends quipped before they moved on.

Arthur growled, shoving the book into his backpack and slamming the locker shut. What the hell was their problem anyway? Arthur hadn't done anything wrong!

He angrily stormed out of the hallway, and shoved past the baseball players without care as he made his way to the art room. He ignored their stares and their muttered cursing as he focused solely on making his way to the familiar room before anyone else got the chance to further piss him off.

The art teacher barely glanced up as Arthur entered. He was writing the day's agenda on the board in colorful chalk, but didn't bother to say anything to his favorite student. A silent greeting passed between them before Arthur moved to deposit his backpack on one of the long tables. He flopped down in a chair, folding his arms and resting his head on his makeshift pillow. The tapping of the chalk on the board was a familiar sound that soothed Arthur's already worn nerves. No one should be this upset at this hour, Arthur decided, feeling his stomach begin to knot uncomfortably from the tension.

He rummaged through his bag to pull out of his Sharpies before beginning to doodle away on his hands and arms. There was nothing better for curing anxiety than drawing, as Arthur had quickly discovered when he had first entered high school as a gawky, socially awkward freshman.

He still hadn't fully relaxed by the time the bell rang to signal the beginning of day, but he did feel a lot better than before. Hopefully the strange occurrences from earlier had just been a fluke and Arthur could have a normal rest of the day.

Unfortunately, nothing was ever that simple for Arthur Kirkland. The moment he entered his math class, heads turned to stare at him. Arthur made it a point to glare right back at them, hold his head high and marched to his seat without so much as a word to any of them. Most of the students turned their gazes away from him within a moment or two, but one gaze in particular refused to relent. Arthur glanced over at Alfred, who was toying with the cross on his neck and glaring death at Arthur.

The older cocked a brow, feigning indifference as they locked eyes. He saw Alfred flinch ever so slightly when they did, and then he wrenched his gaze away to look at the board set up with their review of the previous lesson. Arthur also noted that Alfred had been staring at the fresh designs on his hands before he had met Arthur's gaze.

Arthur couldn't help the dark suspicion forming in the back of his mind that all of this attention was linked directly to Alfred. Up until their minor skirmish yesterday, Arthur had been practically invisible to the rest of the student body. Then he gets in one confrontation with the blue-eyed jock, and all of a sudden Arthur felt as if the entire student body was planning his murder.

The tardy bell had yet to ring, and there were still plenty of students still leaning over desks and milling about, so Arthur rose as well. He made his way to Alfred's desk, standing directly behind him until the younger noticed his presence. The taller blond turned in his seat, looking at Arthur with his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"What do you want?"

Arthur smirked, chuckling dangerously as he put his hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"Tell me, Alfred, do these marks make you uncomfortable?"

Alfred forced himself not to flinch as he stared at the designs across Arthur's hands and trailing up his arms. Before yesterday, Alfred had always thought Arthur's crazy swirls and circles had been extremely interesting. Now they just made his skin crawl.

"No," he lied. "You standing way too close makes me uncomfortable."

"Oh really?" Arthur leaned closer, gripping Alfred's shoulder even harder. "Are you sure?"

"Get away from me, fag!" Alfred hissed, trying not to squirm at the feeling of Arthur's hot breath so close to his ear.

Arthur scoffed, pulling away before returning to his seat. He felt a satisfied smirk tug at the corners of his lips when he caught Alfred rubbing at where Arthur's hand had been on his shoulder. It wasn't enough to fully make up for the awful glares he had received this morning, but Alfred's flushed face was enough to sate Arthur's appetite for revenge at the moment.

When the bell finally sounded to start class, Arthur quickly replaced his triumph with an aloof mask and proceeded through the rest of the day without another word to Alfred. He tried his best to ignore the stares, drew all the way up to his sleeves to distract himself, and went home with a silently burgeoning fury in his heart.

* * *

**~TCS~**

* * *

Arthur tossed his backpack onto the floor of his large room before flouncing onto the bed without an ounce of grace. He sighed into the black comforter, before rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. The fan above him was motionless, allowing Arthur to clearly see the swirling designs he had painted on the blades years ago. The rest of the room was similar to the fan. The walls were painted a pale green, but Arthur had taken the liberty of painting the baseboards with beautiful designs, and papers were tacked on the walls, covering almost every bare surface with symbols and circles. There were some posters, mostly of Arthur's favorite bands, but the majority of the wall space was occupied with his own creations. Even his closet door hadn't been spared. In black paint, a massive circle had been drawn over the doors, an 'X' slashed across it with various other symbols neatly painted in or around it. The circle was almost as tall and wide as the doors themselves, and was nearly a perfect mirror to the design Arthur had drawn yesterday on his hand.

Arthur smiled as he thought of what Alfred would say if he could see the apparent 'occult' images all over his room. The poor boy would probably die of sacrilegious fright. A thin laugh escaped the emerald-eyed man as he pictured Alfred's look of horror. And the stupid boy didn't even know that none of these symbols had anything to do with devil-worship or summoning. Arthur had removed all of that after his first accident.

He felt his heart ache and his the old nauseous feeling return as he thought back to the night he had brushed so close with death. A violent shudder rippled down his spine, making Arthur gasp.

He suddenly rolled back onto his stomach, leaning off the bed to rummage under the mattress. Some overwhelming impulse drew him back there, totally unexplainable, and it scared Arthur as he continued to fish under the bed. Finally, he pulled out an old shoebox, the lid duct tapped to cover the overflowing contents. Sitting up, he placed the box in his lap, and started peeling the tape away. Arthur forced himself to control his racing heartbeat before pulling the lid off.

A small black book sat on top of a stack of papers and clear plastic bags filled with dried yarrow, St. John's wort, hyssop and other plants stuffed between its pages. Arthur removed the book, setting it aside to shuffle through the papers. Most of them were covered in pictures of demonology symbols. Binding spells, summoning circles, sigils, ankhs, devil traps, contract warnings and pictures of some of the more famous beasts of Hell decorated the yellowed parchment, but Arthur set all of those aside as well. At the very bottom of the box was a folded sheet of notebook paper pinned beneath a delicate looking bone. Arthur held the bone in his hand as he unfolded the sheet. A sudden burning, itching feeling began to sear across Arthur's chest, making his skin feel like it was being burned. He dropped the note, clutching at his heart through his thin T-shirt.

His skin continued to burn until Arthur had tears in his eyes and was feverishly clawing at his shirt until he simply wrenched it off. He touched his fingers to the angry red welt that had formed over his heart. The reddish-black mark made the pale scar there stand out. It was raised, silvery in color, and in the shape of a circle with an 'X' through it, much like his closet doors. More of the scar slowly revealed itself as the mark spread across his chest, threading under the skin with black, spidery veins as it fanned out. Intricate designs carved into Arthur's skin slowly faded into existence. They were jagged marks, nothing like the flowing patterns of Arthur's drawing designs.

Arthur willed the pain away, squeezing his eyes shut, and doubled over. The wretched scent of sulfur burned in the air, and the rush of blood filled his ears, leaving him helplessly curled up on the bed. He stretched out his hand, grabbing at the black book. He managed to snatch one of the plastic bags flattened between the pages and ripped it open. Dried yellow flowers and dust spilled over the black comforter, and Arthur scrabbled to crush a handful of it in his palm.

"Go away…" he whispered, voice nearly lost to the excruciating pain burning across his chest. Clutching the yarrow, Arthur kept repeating the words like a mantra until finally the pain began to ease and the mark across his chest receded, vanishing along with the scars.

Arthur finally unclenched his fist, letting the crushed flowers spill back onto the comforter. He lay like that for a few minutes, panting, soaked in sweat, and drained of all his strength.

Finally, he closed his eyes, wiping the excess yarrow off on his jean-clad thighs and allowed himself a brief nap as respite from the sudden attack. He just hoped his mother wouldn't walk into his room, wondering why her son was half naked, covered in yarrow and in a room that smelled of sulfur.

* * *

**End of Part I**

* * *

**So, there you have it. The first of 7 pieces. Hope you all enjoyed the intro. Just don't expect it to be this tame for long. ;)**


	2. Part II

**The Clockwork Stranger**

**Part II**

**Hi again, darlings. Back with part 2! :3**

**Reviews:**

**Ahr0: Hehehe, well, I just give you waaaaaaay to much to read, don't I? xD**

**Blackcat: I'll try to live up to the idea. ;)**

**TG: I wasn't going to, and honestly I told Kay I wasn't either. But I still have a lot of repetitive mistakes, and I really do need a second set of eyes on my work. I can't proof-read worth a shit. xD That and Kay is like one of my older twins (Ahr0 being the other) and a tad persistent Besides. I promised to let her beta a lot of projects...and I mean a lot. xD**

**Piffbee: Woot!**

**Witch Hunt: Haha, a tiger doesn't change its stripes. ;) But Thank you, doll!**

**alguien22792: I love writing Al as such an arrogant little brat. ;)**

**Thanks to all my readers and reviewers!**

**Onward!**

* * *

**Part II**

* * *

The rest of the week was much like Tuesday; Arthur felt like a black sheep, ostracized even more than usual. The stares persisted, Alfred watched him nervously, and Arthur's anger burgeoned into a crackling fire. It left him smoldering on the inside for the entire school week: a wildfire ready to break loose and wreak havoc.

The following days had proceeded with the new torment. But on Friday, the situation escalated.

The week was nearly over, and the weekend would bring him some relaxation, Arthur tried to assure himself as he decided to do his weekend homework rather than draw. When he started working on the reading assignment for _King Lear_, he noticed that Alfred was watching him yet again.

The older scoffed, not even sparing the blue-eyed teenager a glance. As far as he was concerned, all of this was his fault anyway. At the very least, the attention-demanding jock could suffer through Arthur pointedly ignoring him. It was the most minor of things Arthur wanted to do to the ignorant bastard that had been spreading rumors about Arthur's affiliation with devil-worship. The foremost notion to punish him was showing Alfred a _real _demon, and making him aware of just how insane he would have to be to worship one of the foul things. Of course, that was a bit extreme, but what came next warranted drastic action. It finally loosed from the fire inside him.

Just as Arthur had flipped to the proper scene, he heard the door slam shut and glanced up. The art teacher must have just left the room for a moment, as he was no longer at his desk. Immediately, there were five students standing up, glaring death at Arthur.

His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as they approached him, coming around the table to surround him on all sides. He noted with surprise that one of them was Alfred. The boy might have had a lot of bite, plenty of anger issues, and a grudge against Arthur, but not once this entire week had he made any threats. Arthur thought he might actually have been afraid of the older.

Now though, the blue-eyed jock wore a scowl on his face along with the other four students, which Arthur now recognized as players on the football and track teams. One of them grabbed Arthur's arm and hauled him to his feet. He shoved Arthur against the table, the rounded edge digging into his hip. The emerald-eyed man couldn't help but wince at the painful contact of bone against wood, and gripped the table for support.

"What the hell is this about?" Arthur snarled, glaring back for a moment at the rest of the art students who had turned to watch the impending fight.

"You know what this is, faggot," the jock who had shoved him spat back. "You fucked up when you messed with one of us."

"You're an idiot. I haven't done anything!"

"Yeah? I saw you in calc. Fucking queer, Al ain't interested in shit like you or your satanic crap!"

Arthur couldn't help but laugh maliciously. He looked over at Alfred, who squared his shoulders in an attempt to look threatening. Arthur simply shook his head, directing his smoldering green gaze back to the first jock. Arthur had never tried to hide his sexuality since arriving at Blackwood High School. He had had a few problems with some of the more extreme homophobic students, but they were few and far between. Most people left it alone, but it seemed today the football jocks had decided to bring it to a head once more.

_Not surprising_, Arthur internally sneered. _This ridiculous ruse to fool his moronic_ _into believing I'm some sort of Satanist is flimsy at best. But everyone knows about my sexuality. Fine. If they want to make it an issue then I'll give them something to talk about!_

"Oh really? Then what's his type? _You_? I bet you two have a really good time in the locker room, huh?" Arthur jibed, smirking dangerously when the jock turned a furious shade of red and tried to swing at him. Arthur leaned back, easily avoiding the clumsily thrown punch.

Arthur had to sidestep rather broadly when the rest of the rag-tag band of attackers came at him. He bumped into Alfred, and then shoved him out of the way. The blue-eyed man cried out in alarm as he found himself sprawled out on the ground, unaware of the fact Arthur could have barreled into him with that much force. He guessed for all of Arthur's thin appearance, what meat he did have on his bones was solid muscle.

Arthur kept laughing, neatly avoiding poor attempts to grab him, taking a few minor glances that he couldn't quite avoid, and kept taunting them. He moved forward, his face inches from the first jock's face, to avoid another grab. A cocky smirked paint his lips.

"So tell me, who's the bitch in the relationship?"

Arthur heard Alfred shout some sort of obscenity at the rhetorical question, but ignored him. He was still picking himself up off the floor anyways. The other boys were much more of a threat and raging with hateful ire, but most of them had stopped trying to attack Arthur all at once to avoid getting tangled up with each other. The first jock hadn't exactly caught on and was still attempting to land a decent hit. Arthur clenched his fist, ready to go on the offensive, when a pair of crushing arms wrapped around his shoulders. He gave an indignant yelp, surprised when he heard Alfred growl in his ear through gritted teeth.

"I don't bend over for anyone, you little bitch!"

Arthur suddenly gasped in pain. The first jock had punched him square in the chest; the hit resounded with a solid, painful thump. If it hadn't been for the poor execution, Arthur would have ended up with a cracked sternum or rib.

Alfred suddenly dropped him. He let Arthur collapse at his feet, heaving for breath, the moment the sound of the door handle turning sounded. The four jocks quickly dashed to their seats, but Alfred stayed stock-still, continuing to glare down at the emerald-eyed man at his feet.

The art teacher walked back in with a bored expression. His gaze fell to Alfred and Arthur, and a strange look crossed his visage before he sat down at his desk. He resumed his work in silence, wondering when his usually rowdy class had gotten so quiet.

Alfred waited until the computer distracted his teacher before kneeling down with one hand on Arthur's shoulder.

"Get up. And if you say one word of this to anyone, I'll make you want to go to Hell with all your demon buddies. Got it?"

Arthur glanced back at him, chuckling darkly. He'd regained his breath for the most part, but hadn't bothered to pick himself up off the floor.

"I only wish you knew how big of a mistake you're making."

"Yeah, right, what're you gonna do? Put a curse on me?"

"Much worse than that, Alfred."

"Fuck you…" Alfred spat back before rising to his full height and walking back to his seat.

Arthur mirrored him, dusting off his skin-tight jeans and rubbing at the bruise sure to form on his chest. It sat right where the symbol from last night had spread over, making an even more painful impression on the emerald-eyed student. Arthur kept the inner pain to himself, simply watching Alfred the rest of the period until the bell rang to dismiss the students from school.

When Alfred passed him to leave the room, Arthur took the liberty of pulling out a Sharpie and grabbing the big jock's sleeve. Alfred whirled around, intense anger burning in his glass-blue eyes, but Arthur cut him off. He grabbed his hand and quickly drew a circle with an 'X' through it before Alfred could pull away.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Fuckin' psycho!"

Arthur grabbed his collar, whispering into his ear:

"Why don't you go look it up? And by the way," Arthur pressed himself against Alfred, one hand on the taller's chest, "I could have you against the wall and screaming like a whore in ten seconds flat, just in case your buddy can't get it up." Arthur laughed darkly. "Just remember, you messed with the wrong person, Alfred."

Alfred shoved Arthur away, his expression twisted in disgust.

"Burn in Hell, you fuckin' queer!" he shouted before storming away.

Arthur would have laughed again had the searing pain in his chest not suddenly flared up. He stifled a groan behind a wicked smile as he watched Alfred run to catch up with his friends as they went to their cars.

"Oh Alfred…" He murmured wickedly, fingers clutching at the fabric over his heart. "I've already been marked by Hell's fire…."

* * *

**~TCS~**

* * *

"Okay, so a BigMac, and a diet Coke, right?" Alfred asked through his headset as he punched in the order on the register. "Is that all?"

"Yep!" A masculine voice crackled over the intercom in Alfred's ear. The blue-eyed man pressed the total button on the keyboard to give the man the price of his order before asking him to proceed to the first drive-thru window.

Alfred sighed, leaning back against the metal counter where the soda machine sat and all the extra condiments were neatly arranged in bins. When a blue sedan pulled up, he slid the window back, taking the man's Visa card, processing the transaction, and then handing it back. He gave the man his receipt and ushered him to the second window.

Glancing up at his drive-thru camera screen, Alfred loosed a tired sigh of relief, as the lane was empty.

"Thank God. Why the hell are people getting McDonald's this late for?" He huffed, noting the time on the screen informing him that it was 4:33 AM. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes as it sank in. He only had another twenty-seven minutes left of his shift before he could finally go home to sleep through the rest of Saturday morning and afternoon.

A content smile tugged at the corners of his lips at the wonderful thought of sleep. He had been up and awake for almost twenty-four hours now, and he felt like he could sleep for a solid month if his parents or his job would let him. Despite their wealth, Alfred's parents insisted on their son having a job, even if that job was the weekend graveyard shift at the local McDonald's. Something about responsibility, or some other nonsense. Alfred never bothered to listen to when his parents decided to make a huge speech out of it.

Alfred absently plucked at the collar of his red uniform shirt and played on his phone until five in the morning came around.

"Finally!" Alfred exhaled sharply, peeling off his headset, shutting down his register and removing the ridiculous baseball cap that was part of his uniform. He ruffled his mussed hair with his fingers, trying to smooth out the natural part he usually wore it in.

Satisfied with that, Alfred bid goodbye to his manager, punched out and strode into pitch-black parking lot. Alfred shuffled through his pockets, searching for his keys in the blackness as he made his way to the usual place he parked his Mustang. He smiled proudly as he produced the keys and unlocked his car. The muscle car was a source of envy among his co-workers, but Alfred never minded the extra attention. Even his generally cranky manager gave him compliments about the outstanding condition.

As he dumped himself into the bucket seat, his sore legs protesting the movement. But he couldn't help but give into a tired groan of relief to be off his feet though. Alfred leaned his head back against the firm, leather headrest, closing his eyes for a moment. He was utterly exhausted, and craved sleep. Alfred would have been entirely content to crawl into the backseat and fall asleep in the middle of the parking lot he was so tired.

With a sluggish pace, he righted himself in the seat, jammed the key in the ignition and turned the car on. His parents would kill him if he slept in a parking lot anyway, so the twenty-minute drive home was going to have to be accomplished sooner or later. And Alfred wanted to be in a soft, warm bed _very_soon.

As the car roared to life, the automatic headlights flickered on, illuminating the wide expanse of the parking lot in front of the Mustang. Putting his foot on the brake pedal, Alfred shifted the car into drive. But as he looked up from the gear stick, he saw the flicker of movement.

"What the-" He gasped in shocked, his heartbeat beginning to drum faster. The teenager swore he could have seen something. A shadow, maybe one of the feral cats that lived beneath the dumpster? But there was nothing there. Alfred blinked, confused, and a bit scared. When he opened his eyes again, the parking lot was still clear.

Alfred stared into the distance for a few tense moments, wondering if his tired eyes had been playing tricks on him.

"You're so damn tired you're hallucinating." There was nothing there. Thee never had been, but Alfred couldn't shake the unnerving feeling that he was being watched. Nervously, he turned around; Alfred checked the backseats as if a murderer might be hiding in his car, ready to slit his throat like in some B-grade horror movie. To his relief, the back was clear of any knife-wielding killers.

"And now you're just being paranoid," the jock grumbled to himself.

Sighing, he turned back around, very much ready to go home before his sleep-deprived mind could make him hallucinate any more. As he did, the shadow was suddenly there.

It flashed before the front of the Mustang, almost subliminal in its appearance. Alfred screamed in alarm, pressing back into the leather of his seat. His heart was lodged in his throat, making his pulse soar. He dared not blink, too afraid close his eyes. Afraid the shadow would be even closer if he did.

It hadn't had any shape. It was simply a flicker, and Alfred's hackles rose as his eyes darted about. Whatever it was, it had to be an illusion, the blue-eyed teenager tried to rationalize. The lot was empty, and he was exhausted beyond sanity. Obviously, Alfred wasn't in the right frame of mind, and sleep would be his snake oil. Now he just had to get home without freaking out again.

He would equate the burning tears forming at the corners of his eyes was due to the strain of not blinking. Certainly, it wasn't out of the fear that gripped him so tightly that Alfred was sure it would break him.

But the frightened teen didn't hesitate another moment, and he stomped on the accelerator. The Mustang roared, the tires screeching at the sudden acceleration as Alfred raced out of the parking lot. The symbol Arthur had drawn on his hand earlier burned faintly against his sweating skin.

* * *

**~TCS~**

* * *

Alfred slammed the door shut behind him, practically jumping out of the Mustang as he dashed to the house. He fumbled for the keys in his pocket, shaking horribly. He found he couldn't calm down no matter how hard he tried. The entire drive home in the dark had been the teenager frantically watching the sides of the road and even the rear view mirror. All the while, his mind had been wondering if that thing from the parking lot might have followed him.

His breathing came in harsh pants as he finally produced the key from his pocket. He wildly looked around as he struggled to get the key into the lock, the sharp scrape of metal against metal jarring his ears and sending his heart rate soaring even faster.

The moment the key slid in and the tumblers clicked, Alfred pushed the door open with all his weight. He practically tripped into the house out of panicking fright, and slammed the door shut so hard that the frame rattled. He made for the stairs, his long legs carrying him up the flight two at a time. Turning the corner at the top he barreled into his room and instantly went for the light switch.

Bright, artificial light flooded down, washing Alfred in a pale yellow glow that wasn't as comforting as he hoped it would be. The light bulb cast shadows near the corners of his wide room, making Alfred nervous as he skirted around his bed to stand in the brightly lit center where not an inch of darkness reached.

In the silence, save for his ragged breathing, Alfred felt small, alone, terrified.

His panicked blue eyes searched around the room, watching the shifting of each shadow as if it were hiding some unspeakable horror. He tried to console himself, the rational part of his brain working to override the fear coursing through his system.

_This is stupid. I had a long day, I'm tired and I was probably just seeing things. Whatever the hell I thought I saw wasn't real. I-_

"Alfred?"

The frightened teenager nearly jumped out his skin and yelped indignantly as his mother peeked her head through the door. The tall woman wore a look of tired confusion, and rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Y-yeah?" He trembled, flinching when his voice cracked.

"Al, what's wrong? I heard the door slam," her confusion quickly switched to one of maternal concern. "Are you upset?"

"Me?" Alfred breathed out a forced laugh, trying keep his shaking under control. "No, mom, I'm fine. Just great!" He tried, an uneasy grin on his lips.

His mother looked skeptical, but let it slide.

"How was work?" She asked.

"The usual. Nothing special." He responded too quickly, voice fluctuating in octaves.

_Yeah, nothing special at all! Not like I nearly pissed myself from some kind of_ thing _suddenly appearing!_

"Oh, all right then. Get some sleep, Al. I'll be leaving a few hours. Make sure you feed the cats when you wake up, okay?"

"Sure," he readily agreed, shutting his door once she had gone. He leaned against the steady wooden structure, brow glittering with the sheen of sweat. "As if I'll fuckin' sleep after that…"

Closing his eyes, Alfred allowed himself a brief moment of respite. He was miserably exhausted, and yet too jittery to fall asleep. His whole body was charged with adrenaline. He was able to feel the blood rush under his skin with each beat of his pounding heart. There was something else, too, a sort of burning feeling like he had left his hand under a lamp for a while. It wasn't painful, but not exactly comfortable.

Alfred let his eyes slip open again and glanced at the back of his palm. His breath hitched as he saw the mark on his skin, throbbing an ugly reddish-black hue. The thing seemed to pulse with his own heartbeat as he watched it flicker faster when his own pulse sped up again in renewed fear.

What the hell was this thing?

_"Why don't you go look it up?"_Arthur's husky voice from earlier reverberated in his mind, sending a different kind of rush through his veins. Alfred felt himself shiver before he shook off the feeling and stumbled to where his laptop was resting on the floor.

He bent to pick it up before settling down on the bed with it opened up in front of him. He stripped off his uncomfortable red polo, opting to leave on the black A-shirt he wore underneath. The fabric was soaked in sweat, making Alfred grimace as he tossed it towards the laundry hamper, missing by a good three feet.

After the computer had loaded the operating system, Alfred pulled up an Internet window. He paused after clicking on the URL bar. What was he supposed to look up? Occult symbols? Witches? The devil? He didn't exactly know what the thing on his hand was called.

After a moment of pondering, Alfred shrugged and typed in what it literally was: 'a circle with an X through it.'

The search brought up something about a band and album covers. It wasn't exactly what Alfred had been looking for, and he growled his annoyance. There was no way this stupid thing on his hand was just some cover art for a band he had never heard of. He scrolled further down, until he noticed one entry in the search that looked a bit different. It read, 'The Operator Symbol'.

Alfred clicked on that one, reading a brief article about some filming kids in the woods looking for something. It sounded so ridiculous, Alfred almost felt inclined to pity these kids. And if it wasn't for the fact he'd nearly died of fright only a half-hour ago, he likely would have.

With another growl he tried doing an image search instead and was impressed by much better results. Hundreds of pictures of the exact drawing on his hand appeared as thumbnail files on the screen. A chill ran down Alfred's spine, making him shudder violently, the muscles in his back and legs clenching tightly. After the tingling feeling had passed, he allowed his muscles to relax, feeling the annoying tightness that meant his legs were probably going to cramp if he stayed in this position much longer.

"Alright, I found you. Now what the hell are you?" He murmured aloud, his chin resting in his palm as he continued to stare at the screen. He blinked, and then cocked a brow before typing in 'operator symbol' into the image search bar on a whim. Maybe those kids in the woods were on to something. It didn't hurt to check, right?

The results warranted more article pictures about people looking for or using this symbol on his hand, but all of it kept referring to someone they called "Slenderman". Alfred grunted.

"This is stupid. What the fuck is a 'Slenderman' anyway?" He closed down the Internet browser, tired, frustrated and still scared.

He set the laptop down on the floor again before stripping off his A-shirt and long, black work pants. As he went to turn off the lights, he thought better of it. Maybe leaving them on would be okay, just this one time. He would totally be over this after he got some sleep. That entire ordeal had just been a hallucination, and those articles only reassured him. A stupid urban legend about some creature wasn't going to scare Alfred anymore than a figment of his imagination. It was just a coincidence that the thing those articles had described seemed to match what he'd seen.

_Yes, purely coincidence_, Alfred repeated in his mind as he lay down on his bed, pulling the dark comforter up to his chin. He removed his glasses, setting them aside beside his deactivated alarm. The red numbers across the screen cast a harsh glare at Alfred, making him squint his eyes.

_But what if it wasn't coincidence? What if this,_ he looked at his hand, bringing it close to his face to properly see it. _Is really some sort of sign related to the creature? What if Arthur really did curse me? What if-_

"No! No. This is all so stupid. I just need to get some sleep," Alfred gave a frustrated sigh, flopping his arms down on the comforter, and disturbing the warm blanket in his annoyance. His eyes flicked around the room, as if searching for some cure-all to his problems. The jittery teen needed something to make him stop shaking and settle his frayed nerves. He would have given anything to restore his temporarily misplaced sanity. This terrifying generation of unnerving 'what if' scenarios was going to chase away any sort of comfort. Sadly, it was nowhere to be found.

Huffing a frustrated noise, Alfred rolled over on his stomach, looking over the symbol on his hand yet again.

He had tried washing it off at work, but the damn thing hadn't even faded in the least. But he did notice that it stopped pulsing when he didn't think about it too much. It also began to itch at random intervals, sometimes even burning as it had before.

He touched his fingers to it. It felt exactly like his skin, as if it were tattoo: permanently inked and magically intertwined to his heartbeat. It was bizarre and terrifying at the same time.

Alfred touched his forehead to the mark, closing his eyes and hoping sleep would come and whisk him away from the nightmarish waking world.

As he finally felt his mind begin to shut down the mark flared bright red, but Alfred couldn't bring himself to care as the darkness took him.

* * *

**~TCS~**

* * *

"Oh god, that was absolutely priceless!" Arthur howled with laughter as he flopped down on the bed. He tossed his jacket to the floor, chest convulsing and tears streaming down his cheeks. His shoulders shook with sadistic delight, but the emerald-eyed man slowly brought himself under control. Little bursts of giggles kept escaping him no matter how hard he tried though. And as he lay their chuckling, his mind was replaying the image of watching Alfred's cocky smirk turn to an expression of sheer terror.

Arthur felt another snicker escape his lips as he folded his arms behind his head like a makeshift pillow. He crossed one leg over his bent knee, smirking up at the decorated ceiling fan in triumph.

"Serves the bastard right…" Arthur sighed, shutting his emerald eyes and letting the darkness of his room comfort him. "It's a shame he drove off so quickly," he murmured, and shifted to run his fingers over the spot where he could feel the mark pulsing against the skin. "I could have had a lot more fun with that."

A hiss of pain escaped him as the mark flared, suddenly turning bright red beneath his shirt and burning painfully. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut until the pain passed. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as he felt hot tears forming at the corners of his emerald orbs. A wave of relief flooded him as he realized it had only been a minor reaction, probably from allowing his body to be possessed.

Rolling over on his side, Arthur curled up beneath a thin blanket with a giddy smirk on his lips. His mind wandered back to Alfred. Arthur was immensely curious if the boy would even get the chance to fall asleep. The obnoxious teenager was probably too terrified to even turn the lights off. It would certainly be interesting at school on Monday to see how Alfred acted. Also, he couldn't wait to ask Alfred about what he had bothered to look up about the mark, if he had at all. The stupid jock probably wouldn't be able to figure it out anyway. As far as Arthur knew, he was the only one who truly understood just what the mark and his curse meant. And he preferred it that way. Less meddling went on then.

Arthur yawned loudly, eyes watering again, but for a very different reason than before. The burning backlash of a demonic curse hurt; yawning didn't.

With that, he lay his head on a relatively flat pillow and fell asleep within moments. The triumphant smile was still on his lips even as he slipped into the blackness.

* * *

**End of Part II**

* * *

**See you guys tomorrow for part 3! :)**


	3. Part III

**Clockwork Stranger:**

**Part III**

**Hey guys. Sorry for the absence yesterday. Was having internet issues before work, and by the time I got home it still wasn't fixed. Finally had my step dad reset everything so were back in business! :)**

**Reviews:**

**Yanelle: Sorry I missed you last chapter, darling!**

**alguien22792: heh, I don't know... *whistles innocently***

**PiffBee: Ugh, 4Chan is just a total turn off to me these days. Thankies, dear!**

**Ahr0: Baby girl, oh course I do! ^^ Heheh, and ain't Art a bitch? You know I love writing him. xD**

**TheGilbird: awww, thank you! Heheh, and it's more based on like supposed effects of Slender, rather than slender himself. It's just a strong base to use since the imagery and fear is widely known on the internet. I kinda center it more around the demonology deal later on anyway ;) And yes, there is in fact a TG already, hehe.**

* * *

**Part III**

* * *

Alfred woke with a startled gasp. Sweat dampened his back, making the sheets cling uncomfortably to his skin. Sitting up left him with a wave of nausea to torment his stomach, and vertigo to plague his vision. His wide eyes searched the room frantically as he ignored the fact that it was nearing three in the morning. The fleeting memory of being chased had the nerves in his legs firing rapidly and his muscles twitched.

Another nightmare.

Alfred blew out an exhausted sigh, and flopped back down to the bed. His marked hand rubbed sluggishly at his bleary and bloodshot eyes as he tried to collect himself. The nightmare had been the same as it always was. There was darkness, and a palpable fear pumping through Alfred's veins like black blood. As always he was being chased, but by what he never knew. His dream self never dared to look back, and just kept running and running. He would run until he collapsed and the nightmare plaguing him ended just as something seized his throat.

Not knowing exactly what happened each time was hardly a comfort. His mind drew macabre endings with paint made of blood, splattering on a canvas of concrete in place of his nightmare's conclusion.

The mark inked into his skin pulsed, as if sensing Alfred's trembling misery. It was only as he drew his hand back to observe it that he actually noticed his shaking. The jock sucked in a deep breath to try and calm himself. It was just a nightmare. It wasn't real.

Of course, he'd been trying to tell himself that these past couple weeks as well. Yet it never helped. The nightmares seemed just as vivid each time, but they never stayed in his conscious mind long enough to decipher them. It was like grabbing at sand, only to watch the grains slip right through his fingers. Frustrated, Alfred loosed an annoyed snort before tossing the duvet away. Sticky with sweat, he peeled himself off the bed and headed straight for the shower. He didn't have to time to deal with any of this. He was not about to be late for school and potentially lose his parking spot again like a few Mondays ago.

That, and it was so much easier to convince himself that the shadows in his mind were merely figments of his imagination under the soothing spray of the hot water.

Thankfully, when Alfred arrived, his usual spot was empty. What he wasn't thankful for was the car parked right next to it.

The sleek gleam of the black BMW left a churning pit in the jock's stomach as he locked his Mustang. Glancing down, the mark Arthur had drawn shimmered scarlet for a brief moment before fading to inky black once more.

Alfred shuddered, an icy chill crawling down his spine. He was quick to turn away, shouldering his backpack. Now wasn't the time for paranoia. He practically jumped out of his skin and sprinted for the building when he heard the tardy bell shriek from its confines.

The jock nudged his way through the door to his first period class amidst a small crowd of other delinquents who'd arrived late. The math instructor glared death at the group collectively, but her leering seemed to be pinpointed right on Alfred. He swallowed and offered up his best charmingly apologetic smile. It didn't seem to work on the older woman, and she quickly directed Alfred to his seat with another pointed glare. Nodding, he obeyed without question. There were some days when even Alfred had to admit things weren't going his way. Today already seemed like one of them.

Flopping down ungracefully, Alfred felt the annoying pressure of a headache derived from lack of sleep forming. The painful tension between his temples had him grimacing before settling uncomfortably into his seat. There was no position that felt even remotely right. His body vaguely protested the shifts as well, making him feel ridiculously miserable. There was nothing like working all weekend to the point of exhaustion, and then being plagued by nightmares every time he shut his eyes for a respite.

The math lesson started, and Alfred did try to pay attention. But trying and succeeding were two very different things. His eyes kept hazing, eyelids drooping and his muscles relaxing. He was barely conscious enough to recognize that he was falling asleep in class, and tried jolting himself awake.

And it worked. For all of thirty seconds. Then he was immediately back in the same predicament, slouching and sleepy. Just as he realized he couldn't fight it any longer, his more attentive neighbor jostled him awake with a sharp jab of his elbow.

"Yo, Al, you look like you had a rough night," the other whispered. Alfred merely grunted, and sat forward to brace his arms on the desk. The student beside him laughed obnoxiously, much to Alfred's vexation.

"What the hell were you doing, bro?"

"Working," Alfred returned, hoping to quickly settle this.

"You still got that crappy job at McDonald's?"

"Yeah,"

"Hey what's wrong with you? You sound weird," the annoying student observed.

"I'm just tired, bro. Shut up," the blue-eyed jock growled out in annoyance, voice brimming with warning.

"Jones!"

"Shit!" he hissed out quietly as he sat up straight. He flashed an attentive smile at his instructor as if nothing had happened.

"Am I boring you, Jones?" she demanded rhetorically. Alfred naturally had the urge to growl out an affirmative, but managed to restrain himself. He simply shook his head.

"Good. Now please refrain from distracting the rest of your classmates."

Alfred rolled his eyes the moment she turned around to continue the lesson. The student beside him sniggered, tossing Alfred an approving nod of his head. The jock smirked casually, feeling a faint sense of normalcy filter back into his morning. Pissing off teachers, finding approval among his peers, it soothed some of the weariness he felt tensing his shoulders.

Of course, something just had to spoil it though. The moment the dismissal bell rang, Alfred jumped to his feet. A wave of nausea suddenly rolled over him like a tide. He nearly crashed to his knees as his legs refused to support him, and only avoided ending up on the floor by grabbing a desk. Half crouched, he shakily exhaled the breath caught in his throat before someone addressed him.

"Al, you okay? Trip much?"

Alfred acknowledged that he was fine with a slow nod, before he got back to his feet, still feeling a strange turmoil twisting his stomach. The attack had come from seemingly nowhere, but as Alfred tried to collect his bearings, a pair of narrowed jade eyes caught his attention.

Arthur stood on the other side of the room, his slender fingers over his heart. Alfred watched with a confused sneer as those pale digits knotted in the fabric of his sooty gray t-shirt. Why was he doing that? Was there something wrong with his chest? _Shit_- did Arthur have heart problems?

_Wait, _Alfred rose up to full height, glaring at the older student. Why was he so concerned? The little prick could have a heart attack for all he cared! These awful nightmares were his fault anyway! Tricking Alfred into thinking about the creepy things that went bump in the night, making him see shadows and other anomalies.

"Fag!" Alfred scathed as Arthur continued to stare at him. The art student blinked in surprise before leering daggers at the younger. He pivoted on his heel, swept up his backpack over his shoulder and stormed out. Alfred watched him go through glaring blues, feeling the back of his hand burn as his mark glowed crimson.

The day progressed, and by lunchtime, Alfred had all but forgotten the strange incident in math class. He was still sluggishly shuffling through each class, but at the very least, lunch marked the day at half over. Not having to work tonight would be a blessing, and he could actually attempt to nap when he returned home. So long as his nightmares didn't return that was.

The jock shook it off. He wouldn't let the shadowy thoughts get to him, and pushed them away to the farthest corner of his mind. Alfred had more important things to worry about right now: food, for example.

Egotistical, arrogant senior that he was, Alfred proceed to jump the line by sliding into a small group of his friends that had made it to the cafeteria before him. They welcomed him with claps on the back and hollered greetings. The jock felt right at home with the boisterous members of his various sports teams. Feeling better, he jawed conversation with them as the line slowly worked its way around.

"Yo, Al, I heard about you falling in calc today. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just tripped."

"Hah, lucky you didn't face plant! You looked like you were about to puke!"

"Nah, just wasn't paying attention to my footing and slipped up is all."

"Just don't do that at practice tonight, bro. Coach will kill you if you start tripping all over the track."

"Fuck!" Alfred exclaimed in annoyance. He'd entirely forgot it was Monday, which meant track practice after school. He could only hope his uniform was still in his car, or the coach was going to have his hide. The slipping he wasn't worried about. He'd already convinced himself that it had nothing to do with mark on his hand, the shadow he'd seen a couple weeks ago, or Arthur. He'd just stood up to fast and upset his stomach. That's it. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"Bro, don't tell me you forgot your uniform again!"

"Shit, Al, you're a dead man!"

"Chill out," Alfred rolled his eyes, shoving past a baseball player to get his food. "It's in my car. I'll just grab it before practice starts. Stop overreacting," he assured, growing agitated.

"Overreacting? Al, I was sure coach was gonna swing a bat at my head last time I forgot my running shoes!"

"That's cause you always forget your damn shoes, Jacob!" another jock chimed in, letting Alfred slip out of the conversation. Thankful for the respite, he leaned his hip on the counter of the serving space as he waited for his friends to collect their meals. As we waited, his tired eyes roamed over the over-crowded cafeteria. The usual clique were at their usual tables and everything seemed normal enough. Only one thing was out of place.

There was a single empty table, looking as forlorn and entirely abandoned as a high school lunch table could be. And somehow, Alfred remembered that was where Arthur should have been sitting, doodling fantastical things on his napkins.

The jock wasn't too keen on things being out of place, especially now, sleep deprived as he was. With the scheming bastard out of his sights, Alfred hadn't a clue what the art student might be up to. A faint twinge of unease settled in his gut, making him worry his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Guys, where's Arthur at?" He wondered aloud, never taking his eyes off the empty table.

"Probably sacrificing a cat behind the school," one of his friends retorted with a snort, "how the hell should we know, Al?"

"I don't know! I was just wondering," Alfred shuffled his feet uncomfortably before following the rest of his companions to their usual table.

"And anyway, why do you care? Scared the freaky little fuck is gonna sneak up behind you?"

"No!"

"The fag's gonna get ya, Al!" a football player sneered in his ear, and Alfred elbowed his arm. As the other moved back, still grinning, the blue-eyed jock suddenly rose, and pushed his tray of food away.

"I'm not hungry," he declared, stepping back from the table. His friends protested, apologizing half-heartedly for annoying him. But Alfred wasn't listening. His mind had returned to Arthur, and just where the art student might be.

"Don't drop the soap in the locker showers, Al! You never know when he's gonna find ya!"

Alfred explicitly told them where they could shove their ridiculous comments before grabbing his backpack and gym bag. Shouldering both, he stomped his way out of the cafeteria, brows furrowed in a challenge. He was going to find Arthur, and force the rat-bastard to explain exactly what was going on. Arthur had to know something. He'd drawn the mark after all.

But as he crossed the courtyard, a bundle of righteous fury and teenage aggression, Alfred had to pause.

He hadn't a clue where Arthur would be. The older student had been absent from lunch plenty of times, and it was never an issue. But the jock had never stopped to wonder exactly where the art student went when he wasn't eating or scratching out designs in the plastic tabletops.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, eyes scanning the courtyard. The only people outside were those who just didn't want to enjoy the air conditioning during lunch, or so Alfred typically rationalized.

But student-dining conditions weren't his concern right now. He brought up a mental list in his mind, scratching off some places he knew Arthur would never be. Alfred wasn't sure he'd ever seen Arthur on the field, not the bleachers, not the parking lot, doubtful he was in the gym, and Arthur once said he hated theater, so not watching drama class in the auditorium either. That still left far too many places for Alfred to check in the short span of lunch period. There were all the classrooms, the locker hallways and the art room-

Alfred grinned smugly as he pivoted towards the general direction of art class. Much to Alfred's vexation, it was on opposite sides of the school, but he was determined nonetheless. Starting there was likely the best option, but if by some misfortune Arthur wasn't there, his locker would have to be the next best guess.

Squaring his shoulders, Alfred made his way through the open expanse bordered by wilting flowerbeds. The blue-eyed teenager skimmed his fingers over the smooth stone lining the cracked dirt as he walked the perimeter. Its cool touch seemed to calm his writhing mind a bit, and more logical processes other than his compulsion to find Arthur started to filter in. Unbeknownst to him, the circle on his hand flared red for a brief moment as morbid thoughts of his nightmares came back to haunt his conscious mind.

A cold sweat broke out along his neck and hairline, making Alfred uncomfortable and jittery as he walked. Crossing the distance, the blue-eyed teenager watched every shadow out of his peripheral vision, waiting for flickers, dreading a looming shape. It felt like an eternity in hell for just the five minutes it took to get to the other end of the school.

Yet Alfred knew he had to shake it off, once again shoving those fears to the recesses of his mind. The less he thought about it, the better. He couldn't let Arthur see him tremble like a leaf. He had to be firm and without compromise. Arthur was going to fix this whether he liked it or not if Alfred's bad temper had anything to say about it. And once the punk cleaned up his mess, Alfred could go on with his life, finish his final year and forget Arthur existed altogether.

But even if he found Arthur, what was he supposed to ask him? 'Hey, jackass, why the hell am having recurring nightmares?' or 'what is this satanic curse you drew on my hand? Would you mind getting rid of it? Y'know, since I actually like sleeping?' better yet: 'please make it so my hand stops burning and I stop seeing freakish shadows while thinking I'm about to die. Thanks!'

An aggravated growl reverberated in his throat as he walked, long strides tense with annoyance. But really, how was he supposed to engage Arthur? It wasn't something as if you could simply bring up in casual conversation with someone you naturally loathed. Arthur was a freak: a devil-worshiping, homosexual, cocky-as-all-hell freak. The idea of asking the emerald-eyed art student for help made Alfred's skin crawl, and gooseflesh dappled his arms.

Shivering, the jock hunched his shoulders and picked up his pace. The sooner he found Arthur, and managed to choke out a disgusted request for help, the sooner he could be rid of this damn mark. Then, at the very least, he could sleep off his utter abhorrence for the near literal Antichrist he was about to beg for help.

But twisting the door handle and entering the art room revealed nothing other than the pungent scent of paint and a bored art teacher doodling on the board. He ground his teeth, knuckles bone-white on the door handle before addressing his teacher.

"Where's Arthur?"

"I don't know," the man didn't even look away from the board.

"Did he stop by here?" Alfred barely kept his tone from betraying his inner frustration.

"Yeah."

"When?"

"About five minutes ago," the art teacher finally glanced at Alfred, "then he left."

"Did he say where he was going?" Alfred's patience was wearing thin, evaporating faster and faster with each monotonous, automated response his teacher gave.

"Probably to smoke," the man turned back to the board.

"Smoke?" Alfred cocked a brow, his lips twisting in a confused frown. He didn't know Arthur smoked, but in all honesty, it didn't surprise him. Arthur was a devil-spawn, so smoking certainly wasn't out of the question for his nature. After all, what was smoking comparatively when you had devil worship on your social resume?

"Probably should report him one of these days..." their art teacher had mumbled, but had gone unheard as Alfred rushed out the door. By the time it slammed shut, echoing in the hall just loud enough for Alfred to hear, he was already sprinting for the bleachers.

The school's football stands were situated off to the side of the main cluster of buildings. A small, mostly unkempt stretch of weeds and grass left the bleachers plenty isolated to be the school's infamous location for unsavory things.

Alfred may have had an abhorrence for the addiction, but that didn't mean plenty of his less athletic friends did. They'd been the ones to tell him about the usually peaceful spot. Alfred, prized player for the Blackwood Hawks' football, baseball and track team couldn't afford to have his lungs damaged in any way. But it was common knowledge among the student body that the visiting team bleachers hid students from the view of school and offered a quiet place to smoke anything from marijuana to Marlboros.

And that was precisely what Alfred found Arthur doing. Smoking Marlboros, that was. The auburn tip of a half burned cigarette hung loosely on his lips from where he sat, back facing the school.

"Can't you leave me the fuck alone, Jones?" Arthur sneered as Alfred approached. He took a deep pull from the stick, continually glaring death at Alfred, yet not moving from his place.

"Nice to see you too, _monsieur _Antichrist."

"The fuck? I'm not the devil, Alfred."

Alfred dumped his backpack and gym bag ungracefully to the grass without a response. He marched up to the older, standing close enough to loom over the emerald-eyed student dangerously.

But Arthur didn't even flinch. Not even the curling sneer of disgust on Alfred's face phased him. Which did nothing to abate Alfred's boiling ire. Everything about this scrawny punk pissed him off. Even the stench of the wispy smoke made his nose twitch, only churning the blue-eyed student's stomach even more.

"Well?" Arthur suddenly snapped, flicking the ashes off his cigarette. "What is it you want?"

"Answers," Alfred retorted.

"Answers to what, you insufferable child?"

"This," Alfred knelt, practically shoving his hand in Arthur's face. The older finally flinched back, snorting a curling tendril of smoke from his nose in contempt.

"Didn't I tell you to look it up?" the emerald-eyed man scathed.

"Yeah, and some total bullshit about a 'Slenderman' showed up! Now what the fuck is this thing? I know it's part of your devil worshipping crap!"

"I told you, I don't worship anything. Your deities can kiss my ass," Arthur growled, about to inhale another lungful of nicotine. But before he could raise the stick to his mouth, Alfred lunged forward to grab his shoulder. Arthur was violently twisted by the smaller to face him.

Arthur dropped his cigarette in surprise, and winced. Alfred's grip was bruising, his fingers digging into the soft muscle. The jock had his other hand balled into a fist, the knuckles bone white. And he was about ready to punch Arthur for acting so holier-than-thou.

"Don't think I won't beat the living hell outta you, fucking pagan bitch!"

"Pagan? Ha!" Arthur retorted past the pain, "try atheist, you fucking moron."

"Same difference," Alfred growled, disgust drawing his lips back in an angry snarl.

"Actually—" But Alfred was hearing none of it and shoved Arthur. The art student faltered from the force, and fell back on his haunches. Grunting from the sharp pain in his shoulder and hip, Arthur glared death at the younger.

"Don't think you're going to get away with this, Jones!"

"What're you gonna do? Report me? I'm sure the APs would love to know you're back here smoking," Alfred challenged.

The emerald-eyed student snorted, not quite willing to admit the stalemate they'd just reached. He reached over to where his burning cigarette still smoldered and ground it into the dirt, putting it out.

"Fine, you don't report me, I won't report you. But this only a temporary truce. Deal?"

Alfred grunted a reluctant affirmative.

"But let's just get one thing straight," Arthur said without any room for argument, "I'm not dealing with your religious crap anymore. I don't care if you want to worship a zombie; it's not my thing. Leave me alone about it."

"You little—"

"Do you want to know about that," Arthur inclined his head to the mark on Alfred's hand, "or not?"

"Oh, now you're going to talk?"

"Pardon, I had you threatening me on my mind," Arthur shot Alfred a lethal glare that welled up both a sense of guilt and an angry defiance in the younger. The blue-eyed man brought his aggression under control through. He'd come here for information, not a fight. Arms crossed and eyes narrowed, Alfred waited for Arthur to actually get on with what Alfred expected to be a festering pile of occult blasphemies.

And while he was already preparing to completely distrust anything this heathen was about to utter, he still needed something. Any small fragment of an idea, some consultation as to just what was happening would have been enough. Alfred needed something to tenaciously latch onto for explanation. Whether he wanted to fully admit that to himself or not was an entirely different matter.

"Well?" Alfred growled after Arthur produced another cigarette from the box in his back pocket. The older gestured for Alfred to wait a moment, which only had the jock fuming, and lit the fresh stick. He shook out his lighter—his favorite, one etched with an anti-possession seal in the gold coating—before continuing.

"What is it you wish to know?" Arthur drawled, the nicotine soothing his ruffled temperament.

"How should I know?" Alfred practically roared, gesticulation his frustration. Arthur merely blew out a snort of gray smoke with a narrowed glare furrowing his thick eyebrows.

"Good. That means we're done here. You may go," Arthur dismissed, inhaling another breath of his cigarette.

"What!" Alfred shouted in incredulity. His eyes were wide, mouth agape, but anger seethed in his gut and boiled his blood. "No! No, you're gonna explain everything, you miserable prick!"

"Demanding, aren't you?" Arthur growled without any sort of sympathy for Alfred's obvious disbelief. Really, what did the jock expect? He'd spoiled Arthur's daily moment of pleasant solitude, barged up to Arthur with demands, threats and bruising vices. Not to mention getting jumped in art class a couple weeks ago. Arthur wasn't exactly keen on just spilling information for Alfred.

"Damn right I am! I barely sleep! I feel like a fucking zombie most of the time!"

"How is that _my _problem?"

Alfred nearly lost it, barely restraining the urge to lunge at Alfred, and deck him with a vicious punch. The subtle arrogance in the art student's voice was enough to scratch at his nerves, fraying them. But the way Arthur was completely ignoring the fact that he had drawn the source of Alfred's problems was what really pissed the jock off.

"It's your problem because you decided to draw this fucking circle on my hand!"

"It's a sigil, Alfred. All it does is channel."

"Channel _what_?" Alfred demanded, leaning forward, eyes wide with a burgeoning fear. This was getting too weird for him. It made him nervous, wanting to bolt for safety, even though he hadn't a clue where he'd go.

"Energy, things, good, evil, or non-allied. They call things to you too, summoning gods and the like," Arthur added, fiddling with the cigarette between his fingers. "I suppose they act as portals—"

But Alfred had stopped listening to the emerald-eyed student past that. Even as Arthur continued, Alfred refused to digest any of the blasphemies about gods, and magic and hoodoo rituals or whatever the hell the older was still blathering on about.

Naturally, Arthur just had to start spouting off such ridiculous, heathen notions. And just when Alfred thought the art student was going to be helpful too.

But Alfred had anticipated this, and instead of giving into his anger, he drew back into his reserve skepticism. Even if Arthur was only going to babble nonsense at him, at the very least, Alfred could say he tried. It wasn't much comfort, but amidst the misery he found himself haunted by, it was a watery light in the darkness.

Unfortunately, Arthur was quick to catch on and abruptly shut up when he noticed Alfred glaring at him as if he were a venomous snake. The blatant disgust in those darkened cobalt eyes simply reaffirmed Arthur's initial dislike for the close-minded jock in the first place. That was absolutely fine. Let the bastard rot trying to figure out the sigil. It was no longer his concern. If Alfred wouldn't even listen as he explained it, then jock was on his own.

Besides, he'd finished his cigarette as it was and knew he didn't have time for a third. The lunch period only lasted so long, and the end of it was quickly approaching.

"I'm done with this drivel," Arthur huffed in exasperation, and shoved past his classmate.

Alfred caught his shoulder with ease, and swung Arthur around to face him. But the art student was having none of that, and slipped from the younger's grasp as slick as the snake Alfred pictured him to be.

"Arthur!"

Arthur didn't stop walking, but roughly called back, "What?"

"Look, I'm sorry, but you're just talking about witchcraft and other stupid stuff! Can't you just give me a straight answer?" Alfred sounded entirely vexed by the whole ordeal. It shouldn't be this hard to pry a sensible answer out of the art student!

"Why don't you think about it, hmm? Take a good, long look in the mirror and I think you'll have the answer as to why you simply can't have an answer."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Alfred retorted, barely resisting the urge to charge after the older.

"Figure it out your damn self." And with that, Arthur stormed away. His scathing mind refused to acknowledge the faintly muttered words escaping Alfred in defeat.

"What do you think I've been trying to do?"

* * *

**End of Part III**

* * *

**See you guys tomorrow! **


	4. Part IV

**Clockwork Stranger**

** Part IV**

**Hello once again,**

**So, yeah, long pause in the updates. Sorry about that! Real life and all for my beta and I. ;) Always a a joy to deal with. Anyway!**

**Reviews:**

**Ahr0: girl, I'd be dead of fright and you know it.**

**blackcat: Lol, says I update fast, then I don't update for over a week. xD Sorry, doll! Oh gosh, inspiration... wow, probably Supernatural and the curiosity it forms in me. The show generally has some decent research done on their lore and some neat twists on old legends that I really enjoy. :)**

**PiffBee: Haha, portal, eye, warding sigil; it can be all sorts of things. Hehe, given the darker nature of this fic, I think good-aligned nature is out. ;)**

**alguien22792: Confusion makes for the best of stories xD**

**Guest: Lol, witty. I'm sure he'd love it with a passion. ;)**

**SS: OH MY GOSH I MISSED YOU TOO! Haha, I know how to please a fellow awesome fangirl. ;) And seriously, I love writing a creepy, sort of demented Arthur. That dark, yet charming and sexy attitude blended with some smugness, but with the capability of being a decent human being is my favorite personification of him. AND WHAT? WHO TOLD YOU SUCH AN AWFUL LIE? This is why we don't spread rumors, guys. Of course the US has Kit-Kats! I would just die without my deliciously fattening waffle bars of goodness! xD Your school is just dumb. No offense, but really? At least our kids do it in a secluded area. And I love/missed your essays! **

**Yanelle: Yeah, pretty much. Make a believer out of him yet.**

**Heroic Pen: Not going to lie, I love horror, it's just a terrible mess and a half to write. As to MH and Slendy, it's more the appearance, mannerisms, symbols and so forth- just to really bring out that fear I know a lot of folks have simply because of Slenderman. :)**

**Onward then!**

* * *

**Part IV**

* * *

Another two weeks passed before Alfred spoke with Arthur again. It wasn't as if he hadn't tried though. Every morning in math class he would glance over, wondering about what Arthur knew, about the mark on his own hand, about the waking nightmare haunting the jock. Every lunch period Alfred found himself wandering aimlessly, and usually ended up beneath the shade of the bleachers. But Arthur was never there. The scent of smoke lingered, and sometimes Alfred would find the still smoking butt of a Marlboro, but never Arthur. And for some reason, that left an odd feeling in Alfred's chest. One he couldn't, or rather, didn't want to identify.

It wasn't like he needed Arthur's help. No, Alfred didn't need anyone's help. Like the bastard said, Alfred would figure it out on his own. He'd find some way to cure himself of this horror, and get back to enjoying his senior year. But, maybe, if Arthur was willing, he could at least try to make this easier on the younger. Did he have to make himself so hard to find?

Alfred didn't entirely understand how he'd set Arthur off the last time. He'd come to Arthur, asking for help—and Alfred F. Jones did not ask for help—so why couldn't Arthur just try to work with him? Sure, Alfred wasn't entirely open to the idea of some demonic symbol causing all his grief, but there had to be something. Arthur knew what that something was and damn it all, Alfred had to find out!

This couldn't go on. He barely slept, lost his appetite over most meals, and was already seeing his grades slip. He just didn't have the energy for homework after practice, didn't have the focus to read the assigned books. He'd lost all sense of organization, or what little he had, and was so scattered he was losing more points on not turning in what work he did rather than what he couldn't complete. And while Alfred never had the most stellar grades, they were impressive compared to the rest of his teammates. Now they were deteriorating rapidly, and that worried the blue-eyed teenager more than he cared to admit. He was an athlete, not a scholar, but knew if those falling grades slipped too low, he'd be facing expulsion from his beloved teams. That was something Alfred wasn't sure he could handle right now, or ever really.

He had to shake those dreary thoughts from his mind though. This wasn't the time or place for the idea of failure.

Exiting his car, Alfred stuffed the keys into his hoodie's front pouch, clicking the lock button as he did so. Tipping his head back, Alfred stared up at the narrow cross glistening in the morning light atop the steeple of his church. The deep golds and dying violets splashed the white roofing with color, and cast a long shadow across the parking lot. Standing before the tall building, warmly tucked into his hoodie and leaning against the sturdy frame of his beloved Mustang, Alfred felt a sense of peace descend upon him that he hadn't experience in weeks. His fingers brushed the simple gold cross that rested on his chest, taking comfort in the familiar smooth planes.

He'd been here plenty of times since the night he'd first seen the shadows. But for some reason, he actually felt reassured. Alfred couldn't say there was anything particularly different about this average Sunday morning, other than the wave of normalcy he felt splashing his macabre life. Regardless, Alfred wasn't here to ponder why he was reassured. The troubled teenager was here to simply enjoy it, fall back into routine and hopefully move on from these ordeals.

Unhitching himself from his car, Alfred started towards the familiar building, head bowed in tired, but content humility. As exhausted as he was, he didn't think he even had the energy to hold his head up anyways. He'd only finished his work shift a few hours ago, and lacked sleep in that interval. Not from lack of trying though, that was certain. Sleeping was hard to do when every flickering shadow sent his heart rate into a terrified frenzy.

And so, upon entering, Alfred immediately flopped down in the closest pew without an ounce of grace. The blue-eyed teenager was more than tempted to lie down across the hard wood, take solace in one of his favorite places, and finally sleep in peace.

Naturally, that idea came to a grinding halt as sharp voice caught his attention.

"You look like Hell's been chasing you," Arthur observed nonchalantly.

Alfred's head shot up, eyes wide with surprise that quickly narrowed in ire.

"The fuck are you doing here?" he growled out, and then suddenly flinched. Arthur cocked a brow as the younger turned his eyes to the ceiling and profusely apologized. Arthur couldn't help the sarcastic chuckle that rumbled from his throat.  
"What's so funny?" Alfred snarled, hands balling into fists with a dangerous warning. Arthur didn't seem to heed it as he continued to taunt his easily offended counterpart.

"You. Or rather, your ridiculous belief that talking to the rafters will somehow redeem your wayward soul."

"I wasn't apologizing to the fucking ceiling, you douche! I was—"

"Yes, yes, apologizing to God. I'm sure he'd be so proud if he actually existed."

"_If?_" The sharp clench of Alfred's jaw and the disgusted way he glared at Arthur actually had the emerald-eyed student feeling a bit guilty. So maybe Alfred was a tad ridiculous for talking to some divine deity in the clouds and his zombie son, but at least he had faith. While Arthur didn't believe in any higher being, he thought it was impressive for Alfred to put so much devotion into so ethereal. The boy only ever seemed to put his very heart and soul into two things: sports and God. The art student thought it was endearing on some odd level, but knew to keep that thought to himself.

"Yes, if," Arthur affirmed after a moment's pause. He watched Alfred sidelong, his emerald eyes shimmering with a hidden interest. Unlike Alfred, Arthur didn't become physically riled up. Mentally, he seethed, but on the outside he tended to come off as aloof or cold. Usually walking away from a situation rather than engaging it further was when he hit his break point. But he was curious to see what Alfred would do without the option to become physically aggressive. Would he yell? Maybe threaten Arthur? Attack him in the parking lot, perhaps?

But the blue-eyed youth did none of these things. In fact, he greatly surprised Arthur by unclenching his fists and sighing. It was a weary noise, wracked with soul-deep fatigue, and had a guilty swell panging Arthur's heart. Had he taken this dangerous game of poking the proverbial bear too far?

"Whatever," Alfred grumbled without any bite. He tipped his head back, turned to the side so Arthur couldn't see his face, and then shut his eyes. Mass wouldn't begin for a little while, so he decided to try and catch a little sleep, Arthur be damned.

Curiosity and guilt made for a writhing combination in the older's gut, and it made him very uncomfortable. He shifted on the hard pew, continually glancing from his Sharpie decorated hands to Alfred, and then back to his hands. The awkward silence that descended between them felt strangely foreign to the older. Once upon a time, they'd been friends. But that was in elementary school many years ago, and Arthur couldn't help but wonder why they'd drifted apart. It was probably silly to ponder such a thing, seeing as they were very different people now, but he couldn't help it.

"What are you doing here anyway?" Alfred mumbled, suddenly snapping Arthur to attention as he shattered that silence.

"Me?" Arthur stupidly responded, feeling ridiculous when Alfred scoffed.

"No, not you. I was talking to the church mouse," he scathed with bitter sarcasm, still facing away from the emerald-eyed man.

"Does it matter why I'm here?"

"Yeah. You said you don't believe in anything, so why would you come to church?"

"Because I can," Arthur returned simply, his tone neutral.

"Just so you can make fun of good Christians?" Arthur didn't see, but he could very well imagine Alfred rolling his eyes, his gut seething with disgust.

"Don't flatter yourself. I poke fun at good Jews and Muslims as well. Churches are simply easier to find than say a synagogue or a mosque."

"You're sick in the head," Alfred growled.

"I've been told that more than once. But does it really seem like I care?" Arthur quipped, crossing his leg over his knee with an air of regality. The art student winked at Alfred when the younger glanced back at him. Alfred merely sneered.

"Quit acting so smug. You're not impressing anyone here with your faithlessness."

"Stop acting so entitled by your precious religion and I just might humor you."

"I'm not—" Alfred gusted out an angry sigh, and faced away again, effectively ending their poor excuse for a conversation.

Another lapse of ill-fated communication stretched out between them. Alfred seemed to welcome it though, as he finally had a chance to close his eyes and try to relax. It was fairly difficult, especially since he could feel Arthur staring, but he tried to ignore it. And just when he thought he was going to whirl around and snap from the uncomfortable feeling, Arthur spoke.

"I come in hopes that I will hear some Latin."

"Latin?" Alfred's eyes fluttered open, and his lips quirked in a curious frown. "You come out here this early on a Sunday morning to hear a language you can't understand?"

"I don't understand many things, but that doesn't make them any less beautiful."

"But how is it beautiful if you don't know what they're saying? What's the point of that? It's like watching a Spanish soap opera without knowing Spanish!"

"The enigma itself is beautiful," Arthur returned quietly, voice soft in a gentle somberness.

"You sound like a crappy poetry book."

"Is that necessarily a bad thing?"

"Yeah, it's vague and kinda creepy."

"Latin is beautiful though. Languages are in general, but Latin is by far my favorite."

"It's not all that great," Alfred snorted, "and now you just sound weirder than before. If that's even possible."

"But my love of it is for the same reason you look up at the stars and feel amazed and curious. You're staring at dots of light in the sky, yet it's beautiful and mesmerizing."

"No, you're looking at stars, just big spheres of hydrogen and light. I know exactly what they are. There's no 'beautiful enigma'," Alfred mocked.

"And yet every time you stare up at them, you gape and wonder."

"Well—"

"Because, really, how can you not?"

"I—"

"You're seeing stars millions of years away from their present time. Light takes so long to travel, that we may as well be staring at the past."

"That's—"

"Yet we have it ingrained in our minds from a young age that space is part of the future. The paradox is astounding and mysterious."

"Arthur—"

"Looking at the past, the future and present all at once, fixated at a single, bright light in the night sky is simply beautiful because you can't truly fathom time in such a sense." Arthur smiled. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Alfred blinked, dumbfounded as how to respond to that. What was there to even say? The small quip of philosophy from the atheist left him speechless. It wasn't overly long, flared or entirely pertinent to what Alfred had ever pondered on such a scale, but he found that he liked it. The physics of light traveling and time relevancy were complex. But the idea of seeing something beautiful in the convergence of time, and the mystery behind what it revealed was… well, nice.

"I—" Alfred sighed, feeling strange agreeing with Arthur, but unable to deny it. "Yeah, I guess so."

While the response was lackluster, Arthur heard the small revelation in Alfred's tired voice. The cocky arrogance had been replaced with something much more appealing. The general openness to agree with Arthur was a small event, but the art student felt a much broader connotation behind it. Maybe Alfred actually had the capacity to be a halfway decent independent thinker after all, the older hoped.

But he would have to wait to see that side of Alfred develop more at a later time.

Alfred suddenly straightened up and faced forward as Mass began. Neither had been paying much attention to the time or the people filtering in, but as Arthur looked around, it was quite obvious. They sat at the very back, and were mostly alone, seeing as the closest person sat two pews up.

The emerald-eyed student didn't bother even trying to engage Alfred again. He'd said plenty, with better results than he'd have thought possible. No need to push things too far, and he quit while he was ahead.

But as Arthur drifted back into his own mind, Alfred was attentive to the first few passages and windy preaching. It didn't take long for exhaustion to work its way back into his systems, sluggishly disarming him. The blue-eyed teenager tried to focus, shifting and squirming to wake himself up. It hardly helped though, and before he knew it, his eyes were fluttering shut.

Alfred was vaguely aware of the Mass still continuing, and of Arthur's voice trying to coax him into waking, but it was futile. Even Alfred had to admit that to himself as he felt sleep tug relentlessly at his mind, dragging him to blackness until he passed out entirely.

It took a few more shakes of the shoulder and whispered commands for Arthur to realize there would be no waking the exhausted teenager. Arthur huffed a sigh before giving up and letting Alfred sleep. While there might be repercussions for falling asleep in church, Arthur, quite frankly, didn't give a damn. He mentally challenged any deity or pious mouthpiece to reprimand Alfred for dozing off in a supposed house of the holy. The boy was desperate for rest, and if it had taken finding comfort in his faith to actually sleep, then Arthur wasn't about to let anyone disturb that.

He suddenly blinked in surprise.

When had he become so defensive of Alfred? When had this innate urge to protect the younger suddenly manifested itself? Sure, he'd been willing to put a little faith in Alfred, hoping he could be changed, and yes he did miss their old childhood friendship, but this was very different.

He should have hated Alfred. Isn't that what had started all of this to begin with? He'd been so infuriated by the jock that he'd released his curse on him. But now it all felt entirely shallow, and Arthur swallowed down the lump in his throat. This shouldn't be happening, not after what Alfred had said and done to him. And yet—

Arthur made a startled noise as Alfred slumped against him. The younger was still sound asleep, only he'd keeled over, effectively dumping all his weight on the older's shoulder. His head rested awkwardly against Arthur's neck where the art student could feel his shallow breaths dust his collar through the thin V-neck he wore. It evaporated all rational thought from Arthur's mind as the blue-eyed teenager's generous warmth quickly soaked in, and managed to lull Arthur into complacency. He didn't budge or try to move Alfred as the boy slept peacefully against the man he was supposed to hate.

Besides, Arthur couldn't entirely deny Alfred had some appeal. After all, the emerald-eyed man had no shame in admitting he found the younger attractive. Fallow-gold hair, always clean and neatly combed, bright blue eyes, brimming with subtle intelligence and a body well adapted to his physical lifestyle were all positives in Arthur's opinion. And after tinkering with the jock's mind a bit, Arthur only found all of those perks amplified by the idea that maybe Alfred wasn't as close-minded as he originally thought. He seemed to like his notions on his fascination for the esoteric thought of time and stars.

So he let Alfred sleep against him for the rest of Mass without complaint. The boy didn't even stir as the people began to shuffle from their pews noisily, chatting amongst themselves rather loudly.

Arthur smirked dangerously at the first person to shoot them a dirty look. The older man looked aghast at the sight, but was quick to turn away at the intense leer directed at him from narrowed viridian eyes. And while most people didn't even seem to notice, too wrapped up in their conversations to glance around, Arthur diligently glared at everyone who did. Their sneers pissed him off to no end. How dare these people try to judge them, especially in such a place. It wasn't their job to determine Alfred's sanctity by merely catching him in a moment of weakness; Arthur didn't explicitly care what any of those so-called good people thought of him. They could all burn in their imagined Hell for—

"I don't believe I've seen you here before," interrupted a now familiar voice.

Arthur tore his vicious gaze away from the last few people leaving to glance up at a tall figure. The man had curly brown hair flecked with dapples of gray, and bright, kindly eyes. His stance was entirely relaxed, but still retained an air of natural, just authority. Arthur found he already liked the man, considering he looked upon the two boys without a hint of abhorrence.

"My first time here," Arthur affirmed.

"And why did you decide to visit today?"

"I was in the mood for Latin," Arthur quipped. The man smiled brightly.

"Always a good reason to attend church," the man winked. "I personally love Latin as well. Such a magnificent language, and so rare to find someone your age who I know will agree. Oh, and pardon my rudeness, won't you? My name is Father Roma."

"That's a shame," Arthur agreed, "but you're certainly forgiven. I'm Arthur." The art student glanced down as Alfred stirred then. He nuzzled Arthur's collar in his sleep, but his breathing remained even.

"I see Alfred has taken to sleeping during Mass," the curly-haired man chided gently, smiling all the while.

"I doubt your God will mind."

"My God?"

"He's certainly not mine."

"Is anyone your God, young sir?"

"Not that I know of."

"Any particular reason for that?"

"Too many disappointments to count, and too many rules to break."

"Sounds more like you're talking about the government."

"What else would organized religion sound like?"

Roma sighed heavily, but his cheerful smile still lit up his face.

"Therein lies your problem. You have no faith, not just about God, but in so much," he chided without malice. Strangely enough, he was right, and Arthur felt his stomach worm with unease. He'd known Roma for all of five minutes and already the man was reading him like an open book. It wasn't with any kind of hate or disgust though, which the emerald-eyed man was grateful for. Still, Arthur didn't take kindly to being scolded for what he thought. Roma had no right to reprimand him for such a thing.

"I haven't any faith because there is nothing to have faith in. I believe only in what I can see, and I've seen plenty."

"You're young—"

"Trust me, Father, age means nothing. I have seen more than I care to admit," and with that, Arthur effectively dismissed the conversation. Roma looked pensive for a moment, his forehead wrinkling in deep thought as if he was at a loss for a proper response, but Alfred stirring drew his attention away. His tawny eyes alighted on the blue-eyed teenager, watching as he yawned and straightened up.

Alfred blinked a few times to clear sleep from his eyes and focus his bleary vision. As the world came into its usual state of sharpness, Alfred quickly cleared his throat and greeted Roma.

"Uh, hey, Father. How are you?"

"I am well, Mr. Jones. I see you brought a friend," Roma winked at Arthur, who scowled in turn.

Alfred scoffed, suddenly realizing how close he was to Arthur, and inched away.

"Yeah, friend," Alfred scathed, trying to forget the way he'd been mesmerized by Arthur's ideas on beauty earlier. They'd fluttered around his mind, even as he slept, making him dream of endless voids of stars. He forced down the memory of how it had made his heart twist in his chest and silenced his voice with fascination.

"Now, now, Mr. Jones, is that anyway to react? Arthur seems quite nice."

Both of the students shot Roma a skeptical look—for entirely different reasons, but still—and the pastor grinned. His smiling lips parted to speak, but a woman from across the aisle called for the Father. Clapping his hands together and twining his fingers, Roma moved into the aisle. He nodded politely, and bid them a brief farewell, along with encouragement to get along. Alfred's nose crinkled at the absurd advice, but glanced to catch Arthur's expression.

The jock was entirely caught off guard though. Arthur was watching him sidelong, emerald eyes hooded, but shimmering with curiosity. He didn't look upset or perturbed by Roma's quip at all. Alfred hadn't been expecting acceptance written in his pale features. Alfred's insides knotted up as he realized it was probably the kindest look Arthur had shown him since the third grade.

"Quit staring at me, fag!" Alfred snapped weakly. Arthur didn't even flinch as he sat up straight, replacing his curiosity with aloofness.

"You were the one who just fell asleep on me."

"You let me!"

"You looked tired is all."

"Oh, so _monsieur _Antichrist is a saint now, huh? You let every tired guy sleep on you?" Alfred suddenly barked back, eyes narrowing. Still, Arthur responded coolly.

"No, but you're not 'every tired guy' now are you?" he cocked a brow, " and what's with that name?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Don't pull your gay shit on me, Arthur. I'm not a queer. And it's because you're fucking devil spawn, that's why," he snarled, trying to muster up his anger. It wasn't too hard when Arthur barked with malignant laughter. Alfred's blood boiled in his veins, heating his face, and he was ready to deck Arthur and show him who—

"I thought it was kind of nice," Arthur murmured, looking at Alfred through unreadable emerald eyes. Roma's words nipped at the fringes of his mind, herding his words to spill out with a much kinder tone than usual.

"What? Wait—"

"You didn't seem to find me uncomfortable either."

"No! I didn't mean to fall asleep on you!" Alfred insisted, holding up his hands as if they could somehow protect him from Arthur's words and his own squirming emotions. "It was an accident!"

"I know. Even so, I want you to know that I didn't mind, and there's nothing wrong with how you feel."

"I'm not gay!"

"I didn't say that," Arthur smirked, "but you jumped to insist on that rather quickly, didn't you?"

"Well, I have to make sure you know to keep it in your pants, you freak," Alfred retorted, feeling as if he were still giving ground, despite his hurtful responses. He just wanted Arthur to stop. He didn't want to think about this. He didn't want to think about how soft Arthur had felt, or how warm his body was or even that the art student had been entirely okay with it. You didn't just let your enemy sleep on your shoulder like that. That was something, well, not what enemies did. Alfred left it at that, bringing his scrambled thoughts under control.

Arthur scoffed in response.

"I said I was fine with you passing out on my shoulder. How you take that as me desperate to have sex with you I don't even want to fathom," Arthur rolled his eyes, crossing his arms before his chest.

"I doubt that," Alfred quipped.

"Doubt what? Doubt that I don't want to have sex with you?" Arthur blew out a sigh of exasperation. "Right because everyone wants to fuck you, isn't that right?"

"Yeah," Alfred snorted as if it should have been obvious. In actuality, he didn't entirely think that way. Sure, he was well aware that he certainly looked good, but he wasn't that cocky to believe everyone wanted to spread their legs for him. But he wasn't about to submit to humility in front of Arthur.

The art student simply rolled his eyes, entirely done with this vexing conversation, if it could even be called that. Borderline argument sounded so much more accurate, but Arthur didn't feel the need to bring that up as he moved to stand.

"Where are you going?" Alfred suddenly asked as the older moved past him, then quickly corrected himself. "I mean, not that I care, or anything."

A snort of obvious insight, and the emerald-eyed atheist was glaring sidelong at Alfred. It wasn't hard to guess Alfred's temper was a bit of a facade.

"Home. Where else?"

"I don't know," Alfred admitted, shrugging, and suddenly losing most of his annoyance as Arthur's harsh expression softened.

"Go home, Alfred. Get some sleep, please," and he walked up the aisle, passing through the doors without another word.

Alfred watched him go, still feeling strange. No. Strange was too mild for the way Alfred's body felt hot and cold at the same time, how his gut was writhing, how his mind whirled. Sleeping on Arthur's shoulder shouldn't be having this effect on him. Listening to the man talk about beauty so openly shouldn't have left him complacent and accepting. Arthur was a mongrel, a heathen, exactly the kind of wicked person he'd been trained to loathe. Accepting and being conflicted about anything Arthur said or did was wrong. Alfred just felt wrong.

But he fought down the urge to simply cast Arthur down from his mind, and even as he rose to leave couldn't simply feel one-sided about this. Damn it all! Why did he have to fall asleep on Arthur? Everything seemed way too complicated now. Nothing was black and white these days. And thoughts of Arthur, his pale complexion, startling viridian eyes, bright gold hair, the way he weaved words—

"_Fuck!_" Alfred whined as he passed through the doors. This wasn't helping at all!

The blue-eyed teenager jammed his hand into his pocket, fishing for his keys as he grumbled profanities. Arthur was just messing with his head, he rationalized, unlocking his Mustang. Climbing in, he tried to steel his resolve.

_The little fuck is just messing with me. He just wants to see me squirm,_Alfred nodded, and twisted the key to ignite the engine. As it roared to life, Alfred sank back in the seat, comforted by the familiar leather and purr of his beloved Mustang.

Clearing his mind of the plaguing ideas about Arthur, Alfred eased the car out of the parking lot and drove home confident that he could simply forget the burn of emerald eyes watching him with something more than expected loathing.

Arriving home, Alfred spent most of the rest of his day sleeping. He decided he wasn't following Arthur's advice merely because the art student had told him to do so. Oh no, absolutely not. He hadn't simply decided to get over his anxiety about falling asleep over a sincerely whispered order either.

But lying down, Alfred had not only insisted to himself that he wasn't thinking about Arthur, but only napped briefly to avoid the risk of his recurring nightmare from haunting him again. And, much like the plan about forgetting his enemy, so did sticking to merely a twenty-minute nap.

Those few minutes easily spanned hours until the sound of the garage door opening startled him awake. The jock suddenly braced up on his hands, eyes flung wide, expecting black tendrils to be grabbing or terrible claws reaching for him. However, the only thing that greeted him was a dark room and his rumpled pillow.

Alfred's hand clutched the sweaty fabric over his heart, willing it to slow its furious tempo. Terror had him gripped by the throat, making his shuddering breaths wheeze from his constricted lungs.

The back of his hand suddenly burned, and Alfred found what little breath he had stolen on a sharp gasp of agony. The frightened teenager curled up, hand drawn to his chest as it seared and pulsed blood-red. A strained whimper escaped him as he found he was unable to unfurl himself; his muscles had all locked up.

"Alfred, I'm home!" his mother called as she ascended the stairs. But Alfred couldn't force a reply from his lungs.

"Alfred?"

He opened his mouth, and tried to force at least some sort of acknowledgement. But the only thing that came of that was another coughing fit. His chest spasmed, and his body shuddered with each wracking cough. The raw burning inflaming this his throat was splashed with something hot and metallic tasting. Through his trembling lips, tiny flecks of blood splattered his pillow. It painted his tongue in crimson, making him nauseous at the awful taste and barely stifling a cry as pain ripped at his chest.

"Al, baby, are you alright?" his mother asked from just outside his door, concern lacing her voice.

A flare of panic bolted through Alfred. His eyes were wide with a wildly pounding heart and heaving chest. The jock looked like a wild animal, body crouched over the blood stains, shoulders hunched and teeth bared. Blood-tinged spittle dripped from between his teeth as he tried to stifle his coughing when his mother finally walked in.

She was immediately at his side, cooing his name as Alfred hid his face in his sleeve. The blood stains were too dark to decipher on his jacket as his mother pulled the arm away.

"Alfred, what happened? Are you alright?" the woman worried, voice strained with fear.

"Y-yeah," he managed, turning his head away to cough again, this time swallowing down the blood. He couldn't let his mother see. She had already been hovering over him as she noticed his grades slip and her son rapidly deteriorate before her eyes. She didn't need to watch her son hack blood and tremble like a leaf too.

As another attack assaulted his body, tightening his quivering stomach muscles and doubling him over, Alfred bowed like a bridge. He pressed his forehead to the bloodied pillow, gasping and panting between wheezing coughs.

His mother gently guided him to lie on his side, seeing as Alfred's spine seemed locked into a fetal curve. She brushed her hand over his forehead, feeling the sweat along his hairline and the feverish dampness to his skin.

"Al, you're sick," she whispered, grooming his hair back as her son's coughing slowly subsided. The mark on his hand dimmed, the dying scarlet faded to black as Alfred was finally left in peace. He couldn't find his voice past his cracked and bloodied throat, but watched his mother through heavily lidded eyes. His bright blues were dimmed in pain, the aftereffects still searing fiery trails through his chest.

The soft hand through his hair slipped away to touch the mark on his hand as he flexed it. His mother lifted his limp hand, thumbing the black sharpie that refused to be erased.

"Is... is this a tattoo, Al?" she asked. She'd noticed it for weeks now, and how it never seemed to erase. Biting her lower lip, she gazed down at her sick son. He looked small and weak, still curled up and shaking. Her voice was low though, and she could only hope Alfred understood she wasn't here to reprimand him in his moment of weakness. She was worried about him. That's all.

Alfred didn't know how to respond. Even if words could reach his lips, he wouldn't have known what to say. Telling his mother that the man who had drawn it on him insisted it was many things—a portal, an eye, a beacon—certainly wasn't going to work. Trying to explain that it caused him terrible pain and sent him into a tailspin with a fever and bloodied coughing wasn't any better.

The only way to answer was to nod his head to mean yes. He buried his face into the pillow in shame, feeling his mother's grip tighten a bit, but quickly dropping his hand. The shaking teenager pulled it to his chest, tucking the mark away from sight. He couldn't look at it, couldn't look at his mother.

She reached over, and gently rubbed his arm.

"We can talk about this later. Right now you need to rest. I'll bring you some Tylenol to help you sleep, alright?" she assured, patting Alfred's broad shoulder. The only response she was returned was a slow nod of the jock's head.

"Okay, I'll be right back," and she gave Alfred one last soft pat before rising from the edge of the bed. As she left, she flicked the light switch and smiled at the blue-eyed teen.

"I'll call the school too. You don't need to be straining with lectures and practice with a fever that high or that bad of a cough," and with that, she quietly shut his door to do just as she'd promised.

Alfred shuddered a sigh, turning his head to wipe away the blood still staining his teeth. As he brought his hand down, he felt the mark pulse, throbbing with a terrible heat that scorched his skin. Wincing, he tried desperately to will the pain away, to banish the unbearable flare searing him into a shaking mess.

Slowly, agonizingly so, the pain dimmed, and his muscle released. The sharp, shooting jolt of an all over body cramp splintered throughout, but it was nothing compared to what he had just faced. This was manageable, this he could keep under control.

Comforted by that thought, Alfred slowly let his skittish mind unwind. It cautiously drifted back to church earlier this morning, which eventually lead to Arthur. As if the very notion of the slender art student had triggered it, the soft creak of the floorboards pierced the quiet at that exact moment.

Alfred's hooded eyes shot wide open, fear dilating his pupils as he whirled.

A terrible scream lodged in his throat, choked by fear and bile.

Looming at the threshold of the darkest shadows of his room was a massive, black shape. Slithering inky tendrils uncoiled from its sides, unfurling like squirming snakes. Low, white noise scratched his ears as the shadows spread like a terrifying cage. Alfred's heart pounded in his chest, the blood chilling in his veins. He tried so desperately to scream. But it was worthless. Blood forced its way from his throat instead of a scream, making the frightened teenager choke and strain for breath. His body shook as the tendrils neared closer and closer, reaching out for him.

Instinct and raw fear had him thrashing and struggling to back away. But there was nowhere to go as his back hit the headboard, letting the shadows crawl closer. They spread to worm with a sickening fluidity, crawling over his sheets like a horror straight from his nightmares. And just as they came so close Alfred could feel their chill, he finally forced a terrified scream from his tattered lungs.

The door suddenly opened. A choked sob escaped Alfred as his mother rushed into the room, a bottle of pain-relievers in her hand. She dropped it as she was instantly beside Alfred. Her hands cupped his cheeks as the shaking teen stared straight ahead. His eyes were fixated on a single point where the shadows had been blackest, where the figure had stood a second ago. Nothing, not even a trace remained of it, and hot tears of confusion and fear welled up in his eyes.

"Alfred!"

But the cry fell on deaf ears; Alfred was lost. His moist eyes wouldn't leave that spot. Every sense screamed and writhed, from the fading static in his ears to the tang of blood in his mouth, everything felt wrong.

He barely felt his mother gingerly lower him to the bed, forcing him to finally look away.

Vaguely, he knew she was calling his name, she sounded like she was crying, but Alfred wasn't sure. He felt her dab away the blood staining his mouth, felt pills and a glass of water held out to him. Without conscious thought, he swallowed them mechanically. They burned sliding down his throat.

His mother begged him to close his eyes, to sleep, as she pressed his shoulders down, and laid his head on the bloody pillow. No matter how hard he fought it, darkness descended. It peeled away his senses one by one; stripping him of his vision last as he finally succumbed to his tired body.

Alfred bolted straight up, his eyes darting wildly about. The jock clutched at his racing heart as he looked around. There no seething shadows, only the comfort of his familiar room.

_Another nightmare_, he figured, _just another nightmare._

Alfred slowly found his heart rate returning to normal and groaned weakly. He felt just as drained as when he'd gone to church. But now a burn laced his throat, making him rub at it tentatively. It reminded him too much of his nightmare.

The blue-eyed man felt a cough itch its way up his scratchy throat. He covered his mouth, but quickly pulled it away as he tasted blood and wet warmth coated his palm in scarlet.

His breath hitched as he felt his skin crawl with chilling fear.

The black of his pupils swallowed up the blue, just as the shadows had tried to gnash into him. He stared down at his bloodied hand, eyes frantically searching for some kind of answer, desperate for it to be written in the crimson staining his hands. But there was nothing, no explanation, no reason. Alfred's eyelids squeezed shut as he tipped his head to bang against the headboard, and begged God for an answer.

When only silence remained, Alfred was unsure of what to believe now. Everything seemed like an eternal nightmare these days.

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**End of Part IV**

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**Again sorry for slower updates. I hope the bit of extra length is some compensation! :P As always, reviews greatly appreciated!**


	5. Part V

**The Clockwork Stranger **

**Part V**

**Hi readers! Been awhile, huh? So there's been a lot of technical difficulties, including a change in Beta. Poor Kay is incredibly overworked, so thank you Hada for every-so swiftly responding and helping me out with this. :) Update should really be a lot more frequent coming up. These months of endless silence on my end unnerve me, so expect so activity. After this update, there will only be 2 parts left of Clockwork. Between them, an update for Fooling You is in order, and likely an update from Shatter and Survival 101 (once Ahro and I find time). Virtues of Tyranny will be updated as well. No story is being left behind or discontinued. Even Risico is slowly being rewritten. :)**

**Thank you all for your patience and well wishes. Oh! And before I forget. I do have another story that I co-write with Ahro that you all should really check out, especially if you like Omegaverse. :) It's called 'Of Song and Claw' and you can find it on Ahro's profile. :)**

**On to reviews then!**

**Ahro: Oh, you know me and unlikable characters! xD Gotta have it.**

**PiffBee: It's hard for a tiger to change his stripes. But Al's eventually going to get somewhere. ;)**

**Tallan: In a sense, yes. :3**

**SirenShadow: Eeeee, my favorite lil' Canadian! I've missed your wonderful interpretations! You pick up on my allusions so well. So much so that it warms my heart to have a reader actually fathom the depth each character through the indirect characterization. :) Oh, and who ever heard of great character development from trying to make a perfect character better? I love giving them flaws and terrible personalities. It's fun to watch them grow as my fingers dash across the keys. It's one of my favorite aspects of writing. Plus, when I read, I love bonding with a character. And I can't bond to something so likable it's ridiculous. Everyone has flaws, and it's hard to make a character you love static. So yes, I love starting Alfred as a douche and breathing a new persona into him through his trials. Best feeling ever. Roma is a joy to write. One of my favorite support cast along with dear Francis. :)**

**EEEEEEEEEEEE Supernatural buddies! God, that show is sooooo good! ^^ You need to watch the other seasons though. 5 and 6 are amazing. Cas is the most priceless thing and Dean is such a tear-jerking masochist. Oh and Sam! Ahhh. I have to stop. I get rather fan-girly over SPN. xD**

**But in all seriousness, thank you darling. You are an absolute joy, and I always look forward to your reviews. :) I actually do feel a sense of pride for my work, it's just buried under my self-critiquing. xD**

**Little. Misanthrope: Hehe, thanks! ^^**

**Tori-Colour-Bastia: Haha, no need to apologize! I love long reviews :) Glad you're enjoying the story, and finally starting to feel pity for poor Al.**

**AsianFuckingInvasion: Nope! Shatter has a total of 15 chapters. I will be posting the next chapter fairly soon, or so I hope. :) Oh, Risico will be rewritten and continued for certain. ^^**

**Denise134: Wish granted!**

**The Dragon Lord of Lore: You as well! ^^**

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**Part V**

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When Alfred didn't return to school by the end of the week, people wondered. When another week passed as well, and there was still no sign of him, people were concerned. The coaches called his parents, wondering where one of their star athletes could possibly be.

Mrs. Jones never gave them anything more than "he won't be at practice today" before hanging up. The teachers asked his friends, who responded with a generic, "he's sick," or "probably out of school suspension."

But Arthur knew better. He'd seen it all through the distorted vision of the demon. He'd witnessed every expression of terror, heard every scream, watched every chest-heaving cough leave stains of blood on his lips. He'd felt Alfred's degradation through the shadowy claws and misery that engulfed the blue-eyed teenager in a smothering net.

It had started off as an innocent prank. But just thinking of the quiet sobs and whispered prayers for help made the emerald-eyed man sick to his stomach. How had it come to this?

He knew exactly why this was happening, and was ashamed to admit it. Because it was the exact same reason he'd given up demon summoning in the first place; he couldn't control them.

Sure, there were enchantments, sigils and the like, to fool mortals into believing they could hold the demon against their will. But no inked line or crushed flower could stop the wrath of the embodiments of pure sin and hate. He'd barely escaped with his life after the first ordeal, and even then, months of side effects nearly killed him just as gruesomely as his foretold fate.

Along with whatever had put the notion in his head to pretend that maturing a few years since then would make any difference, he loathed. Now he was no longer endangering just himself, but Alfred too. The demon had latched onto the jock, preying on the young man with a hunger only sated by the suffering of a child. Such was the nature of the beast, and why it had been so powerfully drawn to Arthur in the beginning. Now it used him to stalk fresh prey.

But he didn't want to think about those dark days, when he'd practically been a slave to the beast. Repressing such memories nearly drove him mad, but ever bringing them to light, reliving the horror? It would have killed him.

Besides, he was worried about Alfred now, not himself.

Arthur hadn't seen him at church yesterday. The younger had been too ill and weak. Roma had assured him that the only times Alfred didn't attend church were if he were in the hospital or out of the state. Those times were few and far between, which had worried Roma. Arthur had assured him that he knew Alfred was merely sick and not fit to be driving himself. It was an easy lie to tell, but one that burned his tongue like searing venom.

Roma's ruffled feathers had settled a bit at the explanation, yet he still had asked Arthur to check up on him. The art student had had to turn him down. When Roma had asked why exactly, Arthur didn't have an answer. He could have said a myriad of things, about how they weren't even friends, how Alfred hated him, that Arthur was too guilty to approach the younger's home after inflicting so much damage . . .

Of course, none of these responses ever left the emerald-eyed man, but he had had to come up with some excuse to appease the tawny-eyed pastor.

"We had a fight," he had said, hoping Roma would leave it at that. Naturally, the curious man of God had seen the look of remorse on Arthur's visage, and couldn't help himself.

"Lover's spat?" he had inquired.

Arthur's jaw had dropped.

"Absolutely not! We're not even friends!" the art student had insisted. Strangely enough, Roma seemed shocked at the abrupt statement. His eyes had narrowed suspiciously, questioning Arthur, but his tone had been without accusation.

"I was sure you had been dating, and were merely going through a rough patch. You both just seemed very comfortable letting Alfred sleep on you."

"It wasn't my place to wake him. He was exhausted. It would have been cruel of me to push him off. And you don't seem at all perturbed. Wouldn't us seeing each other be some sort of crisis for your god?"

Roma had barked a hearty laugh, confusing Arthur.

"Crisis? Why would you say that?"

"Isn't it taboo in the Bible?"

"So is wearing a polyester shirt with denim, but I think God overlooks these things."

"Are you saying He overlooks who I choose to love? Because I've not quite felt accepted for that opinion."

"He tells us to love all."

"And yet, somehow, I never feel welcomed among your kind."

"You make it to sound as if we are different species."

"We may as well be."

"Why do you challenge everything like this, Arthur? We are all human beings. We love who we love because God wills it. What His servants choose to do in their misguided notions is not the Lord's fault."

"Then whose fault is it?"

"Not everything needs to be blamed on someone else."

"Only in an old fool's head is that ever true," Arthur had scathed, growing uncomfortable with the challenge. He knew Roma hadn't meant even a single syllable in malignant intent. Even so, Arthur hadn't been so willing to welcome such idealistic thought to his mind, knowing they'd only ever be crushed. Reality was cruel like that.

"Maybe, but it's not a terrible philosophy, is it?"

Arthur hadn't had a response for once. He honestly didn't know, and wasn't sure what he could have even said. "Yes" meant admitting defeat. "No" meant another round of Roma's "kill them with kindness" blather. Neither were appealing options to the preoccupied art student.

He just wasn't in the mood for it, not after having watched Alfred squirm from the feel of needle-sharp claws that previous night. They'd pricked at his arms, worming their way under the skin until the blue-eyed teenager had been crying in misery, begging God to banish the hellish thing torturing him. But the coming light of dawn had been the only thing to return Arthur to his own body, able to control the demon without the darkness to amplify its strength.

So he had left. Arthur made some pitiful excuse that he had other matters to attend to, rather than wasting time on Roma's ridiculous optimism about a vile world. A look of sadness had passed over his expression, leaving Arthur feeling a tad guilty, but not enough to stay. He didn't know Roma well, but was sure he'd genuinely upset that man at least a little.

The pastor had bid him the facade of a pleasant goodbye, and Arthur offered a pitiful wave back, but said nothing in return. Hands stuffed in his pockets, Arthur had left with his head bowed, guilt scraping at the fringes of his heart and didn't return again.

Come the following Monday though, the stinging abrasions had been rended into long bleeding gouges.

Alfred had come back to school. But it didn't take a genius to figure that he wasn't the same Alfred they'd last seen.

He trudged into the room, eyes set straight ahead, and dimmed to a mute gray like the cloudy sky looming outside. The jock took his seat without a word, surprising everyone. He kept making sure the sleeves of his jacket were tugged down all through class, even as he lazily doodled on his papers rather than taking notes.

One of his friends approached and shook his shoulder, asking if he was alright and where he'd been. Alfred's lips had turned up in a quiet, and entirely fake smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine, and I was sick," he assured, letting his gaze drift back to his paper. The other student left it at that with an uneasy pat on the blond's shoulder, and headed out of class as the bell rang.

When Arthur walked by, he lingered behind Alfred as the younger sluggishly packed his things. His breath hitched as the atheist registered what all the scratched words and doodles on Alfred's papers were. Circles with Xs scratched through them, between them were harsh letters stitched together in crude block lettering. Strange symbols were roughly scribbled out, furiously redrawn, then scratched out again. But the words were what sent Arthur's heart pounding.

"No."

"Run."

"It follows."

"Run."

"It sees."

"RUN."

"No. No. NO."

"Hurt."

"Can't run."

"Help me."

He glanced up, catching Alfred's darkened eyes watching him with a strange emotion. It was a mix of fear and desperation and hate. The seething mixture was a blow to Arthur's heart, making him cringe. He stepped back, and forced his legs to carry him to the door despite their protest to simply give out. Alfred's gaze never left him until Arthur was long gone.

The art student trudged through the rest of the first half of the day, always certain a pair of pained eyes were on him. They were eyes that bore into him, welling up guilt that strangled his insides, leaving his nauseous. They were eyes that Arthur had witnessed beg and cry for help, looking for a savior. They were eyes that were once as blue as a summer sky, now tinged gray as the dismal overcast blotting out the sun.

Malfeasance plagued Arthur like a disease, spreading and sapping his strength. His mind was tormented until the emerald-eyed student finally made it to lunch period and hid beneath the bleachers. He dumped himself ungracefully to the grass, eagerly fishing out his cigarettes for some much needed anxiety relief.

The tiny flame and spark of his lighter brought him a deep inhale of nicotine for just that. Breathing out the smoke on a tired sigh, Arthur ran his fingers through his hair. Since it was perpetually messy, ruffling the thick strands did little more than unsettle the crown some. Not that Arthur cared, especially not now. His mind was far from such things.

Twisted images of Alfred haunted his mind. Broken, gnarled streaks of scarlet down his pale, trembling stomach, slashes across his thighs, claws scratching at tendons-

"You're here."

Arthur's eyes went wide as his gaze shot up.

The corporeal phantom that lurked about his heart stood before him, looking strangely pale in the gray light of the cloudy sky. But Arthur noted there was a faint spark returning to his eyes. Unfortunately, it was one of ire.

"I'm always here," Arthur returned quietly.

"Not when I was looking,"

"Perhaps I didn't want to be found?"

Alfred didn't respond. There was no gruff retort and machismo display. There was simply no reason or will to force out any kind of defiance or anger. It wasn't that he didn't feel it. Inside he raged, stomach knotted, heart twisted, wanting to throttle the art student. But his body was disassociated from it all, numb to the spite.

_This is your fault! You did this to me! I needed you, and you just didn't want to be found? That's your excuse?_

The quiet acceptance of the statement unnerved the older. He couldn't hear the accusation and hate in Alfred's mind, but the dark leer burning into his bright emeralds told him more than he wanted to know.

This dark Alfred was strangely terrifying, Arthur realized. Before, Alfred's constant cockiness and easy to avoid aggression were nothing to deal with. But this cold, uncaring Alfred was the worst. It broke his heart and made him shiver in fear interchangeably mixed with pity and regret.

"Then why are you here?" Alfred suddenly asked.

"I needed to smoke."

"That's all?" Alfred inquired, voice dead with chilly spite.

"I- No. Not it's not."

The blue-eyed jock tilted his head, still expressionless. The strange, jerky motion made Arthur's skin crawl. Looking at the jock, it was so easy to remember the way his flesh felt when torn from bone. It was easy to remember how hot his blood had been against the shadows. And now here he was, wounds hidden underneath layers of clothing, and anger hidden beneath the outer shell of a broken man. Those accusing eyes would not leave him; they impaled him upon an icy dagger of judgement.

"Not everything needs to be blamed on someone else..." Roma's once cheery words echoed in his mind as only a hollow assertion of Arthur's guilt. He'd done this to Alfred. He'd caused this dark side of him to shelter the crippled mind of a haunted man.

"Sit," Arthur finally huffed out after a long lapse into silence. He took another drag from his cigarette, sighing a column of smoke.

Alfred watched him, but did not move. It took Arthur adding a soft plea to stir him from his chilly defiance.

"Please?"

"Fine," Alfred agreed. He stiffly knelt, wincing as his knees hit the ground, and his tattered thighs throbbed in immense pain. As he adjusted, resting his weight on his hips, legs stretched, Arthur reached out. He gingerly touched Alfred's arm, feeling almost out of body as he remembered the damage the demon had dealt.

The jock flinched violently, jerking back. A sneer painted his lips as he clutched his arm to his chest as if the older's touch was acid.

"Are you hurt?" Arthur played dumb, but was genuinely concerned. He hadn't expected such a harsh reaction to the simple graze of his fingers.

"No," Alfred bit back, loathing the way Arthur looked on him with such pity. He hated this feeling of weakness. He hated feeling helpless.

"Your arms are bandaged," the older observed, bringing the cigarette to his lips again. He'd noted the gauze wrapping when Alfred sat down and his sleeve had shifted some to reveal it.

The other blond nervously tugged his sleeves down, bunching the hem up in his hands. Arthur noted the faint allover tremble coming over the younger's damaged body. His dimmed eyes were dilated, black swallowing up dying blues, and darted about.

Something had finally snapped.

"Alfred-"

"Help me," Alfred suddenly interrupted, "please."

"I-"

"Ever since you drew that symbol on my hand, I can't get it out of my head. I see it everywhere, I can't stop drawing it!"

"Alfred, it's just-"

"It's a portal, it's an eye, I fucking know! And it's driving me insane! I feel like a fucking lunatic clawing at the walls!"

"Please, you have to calm down, Alfred. Slow down, tell me what's happening." Arthur already knew, but he needed to keep Alfred from panic. The emotion was contagious, and he felt his own heart race just watching Alfred trembled and blather. It would solve nothing for the both them to be out of their wits.

So Arthur tried once more, and gingerly rested his hand on Alfred's arm. The younger twitched, clearly fighting back the instinct to retreat in his endeavors to calm himself. At least it was a good start though.

"Tell me what happened here," Arthur ordered in a low, soothing tone as he ground out the stump of his Marlboro. While he hated having Alfred recount the story, and hated reliving it as well, Arthur needed to know what Alfred perceived.

The blue-eyed teenager drew in a deep breath, but it hitched in his throat and the only sound that escaped him was a miserable eyes shifted to the art student as the older gently rubbed his arm, trying to soothe him.

"Who did this to you?" Arthur persisted, but kept up his motions, hearing some of the near palpable tension escape the younger on a sighed breath. But that didn't mean Alfred was ready to answer.

The teenager was still firm in his belief that Arthur had something to do with this. He'd set it in his mind that Arthur knew so much more than he'd ever let on. But the symbol Arthur had drawn was supposed to be connected to some kind of internet hoax. Wasn't it? The art student had just been trying to scare the jock after Alfred's rather rash anger had been lashed on 's all.

But something wicked had sprung from that event. The moment Alfred had felt the Sharpie dry on his skin, everything had gone terribly wrong. But Alfred didn't know what to believe anymore. Arthur told him nothing, his research was a mess of paradoxes, and his rationale only ever told him he wanted to run and hide. Any answer would have sufficed. Just to give him a solid explanation of the Hell his life had become.

But without an answer to his own doubts and fears, he could not respond to Arthur's question. He didn't know what the man believed, how he would react. What would Arthur do if Alfred told him what he actually saw and felt? How would he react if he knew Alfred saw figures in squirming shadows, glimpsed a slender body, and white face? Would he call him crazy for feeling claws peeling back skin night after night? Or if he said he lived the same nightmare every dream, never knowing if he lived or died at the end? What-

"Alfred?"

Said man looked up, not having realized he'd zoned out. His racing thoughts were all consuming these days, leaving him breathless despite that he hadn't budged an inch.

As Alfred met those worried viridian eyes, he vowed himself to a compromising silence. By some miracle, after how terrible Alfred had been to Arthur, the man was still trying to be kind to him. The emerald-eyed man offered him solace in just his voice and presence. It was something Alfred was barely coming to terms with. He'd never taken comfort in such things from a man. Never wanted to prior to trying to learn about the emerald-eyed art student. The notion was supposed to be repulsive. Yet, he was still here, still dependent on Arthur's touch to keep his mind from returning to panic. Dependent and willing. Because he found the touch warm, found himself enjoying it, actually.

"Y-yeah?" the jock responded shakily after another moment.

"What happened?"

"I- I don't know," he lied, squinting his eyes as he felt moisture begin to bead at the corners. Why was everything so wrong?

Without thought or hesitation, Arthur quietly brushed his fingers over the the tiny, clear pearls, staining them on the pads of his fingers. He couldn't have handled watching Alfred cry. The once egotistical, hot-tempered jock shouldn't have been reduced to this. He shouldn't be broken like a man on a ledge, gaze regretful as he stared down at his own end before the fall.

"Arthur?" Alfred called weakly, gray-blue gaze on the only man he'd thought to confided his cracking mind to.

"Whatever is happening to you, I'll help you," Arthur promised. Because that was all he could do. Feeling those tears on his fingers had stolen any malignancy from the art student. It wasn't supposed to go this far. He hadn't meant to hurt Alfred like this. But telling him all that he knew, as Alfred wanted, would only destroy what remained of the teenager. So feigning stupid was the only way. Because Alfred needed someone to lean on. And he was the only one. The very same person maiming every aspect of Alfred's existence, all for a childish ploy at unflattering revenge that Arthur had long forgotten.

He would lie to protect Alfred as best he could now. And if the guilt had been terrible a burden before, Arthur was scared it would very well crush him now.

"I'm sorry..." the younger murmured before resting his head on Arthur's shoulder, groaning at the overwhelming nausea.

Arthur clearly didn't know. How could he? He'd drawn an internet symbol of horror on the back of his hand, for God's sake! It had been a joke. There was something else at work, Alfred decided, content to delude himself of Arthur's history for the occult. Why would he offer the blue-eyed teenager a shoulder to lean on if he was out to hurt Alfred anyway?

Whatever Arthur knew, or claimed to know, was probably false or a simple extension of the jock's own research. But Alfred felt a strange sense burgeoning in his gut as Arthur pulled out another cigarette, careful not to shift the tired blond.

"Hey," he whispered, lacking the will to raise his voice in the quiet comfort he felt surrounding them. He'd think about that emotion later. It made him feel strange if he brooded on it too long, and Alfred needed no further discomforts.

"Hmm?"

"Can I have one?"

"A smoke?"

"Yeah."

"Alfred, I don't think-"

"Please?"

The art student sighed, a puff of smoke curling from his lips. He didn't like the thought of letting Alfred smoke because of his anxiety. There were much healthier ways to ease the burden of the nightmare, but Alfred needed something potent, and from the plea in his voice, he needed it now.

"I don't approve of this," Arthur murmured, but pulled out another stick, "just so you know."

"As if I care," Alfred grunted in return, taking the Marlboro and Arthur's offered lighter.

"Don't be an ass."

"I'm sorry," Alfred muttered quietly before inhaling a deep breath of the cigarette. He coughed, his damaged lungs rejecting the burn of the cigarette, but settled when Arthur rubbed his back.

"I don't know. I think I might like this you. You're much humbler and better, quieter company."

"At least someone profits from my insanity..." the jock mumbled, eyes downcast, but inched closer to Arthur.

"Friendships aren't business endeavors, Alfred. I'm not profiting from any of your pain, real or imagined," the art student returned in sincerity, before bringing the cigarette to his lips again.

"Thank you."

"For?"

"Calling me a friend. I didn't think I'd ever hear that from you. I'm still not sure I believe it."

"Please, that's nothing. Your old pastor thought we were dating."

Arthur expected some form of disgusted retort, but was met only with a shrug and the residue of a puff of smoke stinging his eyes. Alfred shakily glanced up at Arthur, still resting his head on the older's comfortable shoulder.

"Did he really? Roma actually thought we were a couple? Was he mad?"

"Indeed he did, but he wasn't upset. He also thought we were having a spat," Arthur snorted, and laughed quietly along with Alfred.

"He's ridiculous." The teenager softly smiled, feeling that unnamed emotion welling up again.

"I thought that too. Honestly, us dating?"

"Yeah..." Alfred breathed out, taking the last drag from his expended stick and grinded the burning end into the ground. "I mean, I'm not gay."

"Right," Arthur drawled, discretely rolling his eyes, seeing as Alfred was practically in his lap.

Quiet, the air seemed warm and easy between them. Alfred nuzzled against Arthur's neck without realizing it, but neither seemed bothered. When had this become so natural, so acceptable? Alfred had to wonder. When had he stopped caring about Arthur's sexual illegalities? When had he started becoming so comfortable lying his head on the older's shoulder and feeling the warm heat of his pulse through the delicate skin on his neck. This should have been a terrible sin. And the jock realized he hadn't asked for forgiveness from his sins in a long time. But this was one vice he wasn't afraid of, one he actually wanted to keep close to his heart. It was the unidentified emotion that kept him comfortable beside Arthur until the lunch bell rang.

The art student gently nudged Alfred's back, wondering if the blue-eyed jock might have fallen asleep on him, given the fact his eyes were fluttered shut and he felt a bit heavy.

Alfred stirred at the prodding though, and reluctantly sat up. He rubbed at his tired eyes, irritating them until they were red-rimmed. Arthur watched him try to stand, and felt a sharp pang in his heart when the younger narrowed his eyes at the pain, stumbling to his feet.

"Your legs..."

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Alfred nodded, limping back towards the fields.

Arthur was up much quicker, forgoing his backpack to set his hand on Alfred's shoulder, effectively halting him. The jock glanced back, and Arthur grimace. His tired expression, the dark bags under his eyes, the still lingering hollowness to his gaze, it hurt his heart. But there was improvement. The hate that had once sparked in the gray was now strangled in confused blue. And Arthur was fairly certain he knew exactly where the confusion originated from.

"Alfred, I meant what I said. I'll help you however I can."

"There's not much you can do," the younger returned.

"You don't know that."

The jock looked like he wanted to argue that, but the fight just wasn't there. It had long since drained away with his deplorable health. So he simply nodded, but didn't object when Arthur leaned up, turning his shoulder.

The older placed a soft kiss on the wounded teenager's chapped lips. It lasted only a moment, not long enough for Alfred to even register what was happening. He stared wide-eyed as Arthur left his hand on the younger's shoulder. He didn't know how to respond. His brain had shut down rational thought, and he felt stupid for gawking. But what else could he do?

"That can stay between us," Arthur murmured, suddenly flushing. The impulse had come over him, and he hadn't thought to fight it.

"Yes," Alfred agreed dumbly, and shifted away from Arthur. His hand went to his cross, but the simple, warm gold didn't bring him the answers it usually did. There was a void there now. But something else swelled up in chest, that emotion again.

"I-" he started, but Arthur seemed to come to his senses and went back to his backpack. He slung it over his shoulders, and passed Alfred without another glance.

"Be careful," he muttered, then hurried to class without looking back.

* * *

**~TCS~**

* * *

Mondays meant track practice. And for once, Alfred actually dreaded it.

Changing into his track uniform would mean exposing the gashes on his thighs, the slashes all over his chest and his heavily bandaged arms. He couldn't risk the rest of the track team seeing that and asking questions. He couldn't deal with the stares right now, especially not as confused as he felt.

His stomach was still knotted up from spending lunch under the bleachers with Arthur. That warm, but strangely nauseating emotion just wouldn't leave him. It twisted his insides and blurred his mind. Every sense tried to remember the feeling of that split instance, but it had all been too fleeting. Only the warmth in his chest lingered, but for now, it was enough.

Alfred approached his coaches, feeling sick to his stomach and worried about being exposed.

"Alfred! I wasn't expecting you back. Where've you been?" the varsity coach inquired, his dark brown eyes wide in surprise and worry.

"Hey, Coach," Alfred offered with as much of his old enthusiasm as he could muster, which was incredibly lacking. "Sorry, I've been really sick. I still don't feel so well, but mom forced me to come back to school."

"She should have kept you home. You look bad, Al," his coach reaffirmed honestly, but not without sympathy.

"I feel worse. I don't even think I can run," he murmured, looking solemnly at the track.

The junior varsity coach glared at the wounded athlete without a drop of pity. He reprimanded Alfred, making sure the blond knew he'd be running. Alfred barely tore his gaze from the track to plead for them to excuse him from practice due to his present illness.

"You haven't been here for God knows how many practices, Al!" the angry one hollered, glaring at the tall jock. "You get on that track and start makin' up for lost time!"

"Sir, I can't! I- I don't feel-"

"Listen, Al," the other coach interjected, "you've got to step up. State finals are coming up, and we need our best 400 meter sprinter in top shape. You're not exactly looking to good. And I had to talk with your teachers, and neither are your grades."

"I know," Alfred mumbled, shame tingeing his voice.

"You know the school requires you to keep up your GPA to continue participating in sports, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, just so you know. I'd feel bad about having to drop one of our best kids from the team over grades."

"Yes sir," Alfred affirmed.

"Alright. Since you're not looking so good, I won't have you run. Go back to the locker room. Coach Bran and I will talk to you about your condition after practice is over, alright?"

Alfred nodded, feeling even worse than before. He trudged away, trying to hide the painful limp faltering his steps.

When he made it back to the locker rooms, he sat down on the benches, and dropped his head in his hands. Everything ached, everything felt wrong. Everything was falling apart. And Alfred was helpless to keep his world from crumbling.

So he stayed like that, wallowing, but unable to rouse himself from his misery until the coaches returned. They tried to guilt him, prodding him to get more sleep and bring up his grades. Alfred barely listened. He couldn't do what they asked, so why bother? He couldn't sleep with every shadow out to rip him to pieces. He couldn't focus in school without sleep to recover each day's exhaustion. Eating made him sick, throwing up made him feel even weaker. There was no winning this hateful game.

When they finally left him alone, the blue-eyed teenager was more than grateful. He'd barely spoken to them, merely grunting affirmatives to appease them. It seemed to work, as Coach Bran clapped him on the shoulder approvingly before they left.

A soft sigh escaped the weary teenager as he ran his trembling fingers through his hair. Blinking away the faint haze that came over his vision, Alfred rose and gathered his belongings. The jock slung everything over his broad, sloping shoulders before trudging out to the parking lot.

He wanted to be home, away from prying questions and these conflicting feelings crashing against him like storm surges.

Alfred couldn't begin to fathom how he'd made I through the day without breaking down. And as he reached his car, he slumped against the beloved Mustang's sun-warmed frame. The sturdy metal had cooled as dusk approached, not that it had seen much sun to begin with. The overcast was pervasive through most of the day, only fleeting snatches of light ever filtering through sporadically.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on the teen, and he could have fallen asleep leaning against his car if something hadn't caught his eye. Gooseflesh shivered down his arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose as a chill descended upon him. As his heart began to pound in terror, Alfred glanced down at his side mirror.

The shadowy figure of a tall creature loomed in the reflection of the glass. Black tendrils spread from its back, curling like claws, reaching out to grab him.

A scream tore from Alfred's throat as he whirled around, eyes wide in absolute terror.

But there was nothing there. The darkening parking lot was entirely deserted save a for a few cars. Alfred panted harshly, breath ragged as his eyes darted about.

He suddenly glanced back down at the mirror, but it revealed nothing.

"I'm losing it..." he murmured, unable to calm his breathing even as he shakily unlocked the doors and drove away.

* * *

**And tada! Part 5 of 7! Hope you all enjoyed. Feel free to ask me anything here or on tumblr (hellieace. tumblr. com). Have a wonderful Doomsday everyone! :3**


	6. Part VI

**The Clockwork Stranger**

**Part VI**

**Hi guys *sleepy wave***

**Okay, so I will totally reply to all of you wonderful reviewers over PM because it is 3am and I'm tired, and work starts in 3 hours, so yeah. Pms. Tomorrow. Swear it. KK, on to story. Second to last part, woooo!**

**Oh and to the Guest I can't Pm tomorrow, thank you for pointing out the typos!**

**Onwards, brave souls!**

* * *

**Part VI**

* * *

Fog chilled the night air with a cold, rolling breath. The dense clouds clung damply to the air and Alfred's skin. It made him shudder, the cold and fear melding, suffusing beneath his skin, creeping into his bone.

It blurred his vision, hazing his glasses in cold condensation until the teenager was forced to remove them. The change wasn't altogether different. This fog was frighteningly thick, and every shape was nothing but a blur of dying colors—not that there was much color to begin with though. Alfred hadn't a clue where he was, but tall shapes, all black and craggy, loomed around. They reached up from the fog into the black sky above, vanishing into the doom of shadows.

The only light came from the glittering dots above. The blanket of red gems hovered aloft, looking like drops of blood splattered across a black, eerie canvas.

_Stars?_he wondered, shivering as the cold permeated through even his heavy jacket. It sunk into flesh and bone, and had his teeth chattering miserably. But they seemed too ominous to ever be the flecks of light he'd gazed upon every night.

Troubled gray-blues warily flitted back to the tall shapes. Blind to the ground beneath him, Alfred tentatively took a step forward. He was relieved to find solid footing, but where he stepped gave some, feeling like grassy turf, which only further confused the jock.

Another leap of faith, and Alfred outstretched his hand to the black shape. He had no idea what could possibly be happening, how he'd ended up in this fog, but these shapes bewildered him.

_Curiosity killed the cat_, Alfred thought, retracting his hand inches before one of the things. He swallowed the lump in his throat, hesitated a few more moments, but reached out again. This time, he let his fingers graze the rough surface.

_A tree?_

The surface was rough, and flaked a bit, much like bark. Alfred spread his fingers, pressing his palm flat to the thing. The entirety of it was similar, but different grooves marked along the black shape's length.

A sudden snap had Alfred whirling around.

The fog drifted lazily, entirely undisturbed. Above, the scarlet light shimmered dully as it had been. Nothing seemed out of place. But Alfred couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. It felt as if a hungry leer was burning into his skin, as a starved wolf glared down a plump rabbit before giving chase.

His breath came on harsh clouds of vapor that mingled with the fog as the cold snatched at his lungs. The eerie light of this dark place cast angled shadows across every flat plane, and twisted the rolling clouds of fog into horrible, misshapen beasts. They prowled between the black trees, claws clicking and snapping like the sound of bones breaking.

Fear struck Alfred's heart and made his stomach drop. Cold nausea had him shaking. His heart raced, his eyes darted about. A voice screeched in his head,

_Run!_

But he was rooted to the spot, legs trembling, and knees threatening to buckle beneath him.

_Run! Run now!_

A scream tore through the fog. It wailed with misery and pain, piercing Alfred like a poisoned arrow.

_Run! Run! Runrunrunrunrun-_

The venom kicked in, throwing Alfred's muscles into working order. He turned and bolted. Heart pounding, breath ragged and blood pumping, he fled into the towering forest.

The scream followed, echoing between the trees. The fog seeped from the darkness, howling faces, rending claws, snarling monsters, they ran beside him, laughing and shrieking.

Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, as he ran, darting and stumbling between trees. The fog lashed at his legs, the talons of beasts slicing into his skin with each step.

But Alfred didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He couldn't look back. He just kept running. Running and running until at last his legs gave out. He simply fell. Face first, he crashed into the hard ground, chest heaving and heart slamming into his ribcage. Fear and exhaustion broke his will. His legs would not move as he barely lifted his head.

The shadow of structures surrounded him now, unidentifiable in the angular cuts of black and blood-tinged light that filtered in from what could have been windows. Black beams crossed the sky, blotting out the stars and leaving only their hazy outlines to filter through the cold air.

The mark on his hand pulsed, and Alfred's eyes slowly adjusted. Just behind him, he could hear the screams and laughter. The howling and shrieking filled his ears and something warm dripped to mingle with the tear stains on his face. Blurry vision barely focused, but the sight that greeted him stopped his heart.

On the black beams sat a cross. But it hung from a single nail, swinging with a dead wind. It dangled upside down, the wood was stained so dark it was nearly black. It dripped, the sluggish liquid splattering the teenager's cheek. It felt hot and sticky, making his insides churn as he realized it was blood.

The screaming grew louder, and Alfred glanced back just in time to catch movement before he felt his flesh tear. The shadowy thing impaled him, ramming straight through bone, sinew and muscle. It wormed into his skin, tearing, and slicing. Pinned, he could do nothing but writhing weakly in anguish, wanting to scream and cry as he was picked apart from beneath the surface.

His lungs tore with a scream as he bolted upright, sweat and tears soaking his form. Kicking and tearing at the sheets, Alfred's mind struggled to catch up with his body. He clawed at his chest frantically, blunt nails dragging red scratches across his heart. The mark on his hand throbbed, pulsing in time to the racing tempo of his heart.

But when he finally came to, he was left panting and bleeding. Peeled skin and matted blood clung to his fingertips and under his nails. Alfred stared down in horror at the painful, angry wounds he'd inflicted. It had burned, like something was crawling under his skin, rippling just beneath the surface. He'd had to get it out, felt his mind driven to madness feeling like the shadow as still twisting inside him.

The teenager shivered, feeling like some kind of wild, mangy animal, scratching and clawing the parasites that ate its flesh. He set his hands on his legs, fingers knotting in his jeans until his knuckles were bone white.

Wincing at the sting, he kept examining the damage until he felt something wet seeping into his hair. Alfred narrowed his his eyes, hand coming up to brush through his sweaty, rumpled tresses.

He pulled his hand away, expecting cold sweat, but found himself shaking with horror instead. Startling scarlet was smeared between his digits, painted the same red as the mark as it pulsed.

Alfred made the mistake of looking up.

Dangling from his still ceiling fan was what remained of a flayed cat. The skin had been peeled away roughly, leaving patches of fur and oozing fat and blood to drip from its stiff limbs. Its limp body was slick from the oily blood and visceral fluids, organs all askew. Its eyes had been plucked out, leaving pitch black hollows to stare down at Alfred as it hung on a broken neck by what could only be its own intestines.

Alfred could only look in horror, even as bile rose in his throat. The cat's hollow eyes trapped him like a ghastly prison. It reminded him of the slithering darkness that encompassed every nightmare and waking shadow that haunted him mercilessly. The cat's mouth left agape seemed to mock him with a malignant, toothy grin, blood dripping from its pale fangs.

The teenager's only relief came from his stomach convulsing. He finally turned his head, tearing his gaze away as he wretched miserably.

Coughing weakly, he lurched, barely catching himself on his arm before toppling from his bed. The ugly reek of vomit and visceral filled the air, burning Alfred's nose and threatening his stomach with revolt yet again. Dry heaving, the jock dared not to look around. He squeezed his eyes shut, afraid of whatever other horrors that might be lurking in the darkness that veiled his room.

He only realized he was crying when he rubbed the back his palm across his face to try and remove the damp blood from his cheek. Tears persistently clung to his lashes despite his best efforts of quell the tide of fear that swamped him mind.

The jock felt like he was drowning. Fear bayed all rational thought, and his whole body shivered as blood dripped onto the back of his neck. He felt the trickles slither down the nape of his neck, deathly cold like scarlet snakes.

Trying to move away proved to be a mistake. Alfred felt his trembling arms give out, and his vision flickered. He limply fell to the ground, collapsed without an ounce of courage to drive away the poison pinning him there like helpless prey.

Dimmed blue-grays weakly fluttered open. The sight of a world turned on its side greeted him, only making Alfred even dizzier. Without a respite from his distorted vision, Alfred closed his eyes again, trying to convince himself that this was a nightmare. It was equally as morbid as the one he thought he'd woken from, but despite his best efforts, the teenager knew this was real.

He whimpered as he felt an abrasive scratching against his cheek, feeling like the rough tongue of one of his pets. The jock let his eyes slip open once again.

The blackness of a pair of empty eyes filled his vision. Alfred couldn't even scream as the face of the flayed cat twitched, the exposed muscle slick with poisonous blood. Its jaws parted in a terrible yowl as it was suddenly yanked back, flailing and shrieking as it vanished into the darkness.

Hallucinating. This had to be nightmare. This couldn't be real. This horror couldn't exist.

But his justifications gave way to terror was the screaming abruptly halted, and suddenly Alfred found the darkness crawling closer. Its eerily familiar tendrils reached for him, eager for their helpless human prey.

A surge of adrenaline burned Alfred's blood. He leaped to his feet, eyes wide and heart slamming into his ribs as he bolted. The jock's shoulder clipped the door frame as he fled, startling himself with the noise, but the pain wouldn't register past the adrenaline. So Alfred kept running.

He raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time and nearly falling as his feet grazed the tile landing. His breath came in harsh pants, lungs burning with the need to scream and howl his fear, but too choked and overworked to so much a manage a cogent word at this point.

Alfred didn't stop running until he'd somehow forced his shaking hands to pry open the front door, and made it to his car at the end of his long driveway. It wasn't much of a distance, but Alfred felt as though he'd been running for hours. And as he approached his beloved Mustang, the jock collapsed. On his knees, his body bowed over the hood and the pads of his fingers dug into the smooth metal.

Still panting, Alfred's breath fogged a patch on the hood, and the jock did his best to focus on that to be able to gather himself.

It hardly worked. He found his breath hitching and the back of his eyes stinging with the threat of tears again. Loosing a shuddering breath, Alfred pressed his forehead to the hood and wept. His aching lungs were wracked with upsetting spasms, and the jock couldn't bring himself under control.

He cried miserably for some unknown length of time. He cried for himself, for the pain he'd been dealt, for the wretchedness he felt crawling inside him, for the fear picking away at his mind, for the exhaustion ravaging his body, and for the horrors he could never erase from his sight. He cried for the unfortunate fate that had befallen him.

A whimper escaped the blue-eyed teenager, and gooseflesh rippled down his arms. Shuddering, Alfred cautiously turned his head, feeling his hackles rise as if he were being watched.

He expected the face of some atrocity to greet him, and his stomach twisted in anxiety. But when he looked over his shoulder, there was nothing there.

Morbidly confused, Alfred's blue-gray eyes narrowed and skimmed around. A second sweep of the driveway behind him revealed nothing but the natural darkness that generally left the outside feeling eerie at nearly three in the morning.

But upon bringing his gaze to level with his home, a flicker caught his eye. It resided in his bedroom window, which faced the front of the house. But he always kept his curtains drawn, ensuring his privacy.

The curtains shifted, rustling as if someone were parting them. Alfred felt his heart speed up again.

For there in the window, standing perfectly still, was a tall figure. Engulfed in darkness, only a blank white face truly held Alfred rapt in fear.

There was no expression, but Alfred knew it was mocking him, delighting in his terror.

Anger seethed beneath the surface, and Alfred found his trembling, cracking voice.

"Leave!" he screamed, "Get out!"

The figure didn't move.

"Get out of my house! Get away from me!"

Yet it remained.

"Please-" His breath hitched, more tears spilling over to stain his blood smeared cheek. "-leave me alone..."

But it did not go.

Alfred turned away, pressing himself against his car as his body convulsed with shivers. He cried against the cold metal, taking what comfort he could from the familiarity of the Mustang. It was the only secure constant he could latch onto, and his fingers refused to ease from their tight grip on the hood.

In the wake of his overwhelming trepidation, Alfred felt the need to flee yet again. His legs burned to carry him away. He had to leave. He had to get away from these horrors that plagued his heart and home.

Dragging himself to his feet, he managed to get his keys from his pocket and fall into the front seat.

He didn't know where he was going, but Alfred just drove. He drove and drove, in aimless circles, through familiar neighborhoods, through alleys he'd never know existed, until he finally ended somewhere familiar.

Alfred instinctively pulled into his usual parking spot at school and killed the engine. He didn't bother removing the keys as he stared out at the tall building before him. It was obviously deserted at this time of night, but it still seemed more inviting than the house he called a home no longer.

Exhaustion crept its way into his throat in the form of a cracked yawn. Sniffling, the jock wearily climbed over the center console into the back seats. His heavy jacket was in a heap on the floor and as he curled up, he pulled it over himself as a makeshift blanket.

The morning light paling the sky told him it was nearly time to begin the day, but at the very least he could doze quietly for maybe an hour or so. He could only hope the light would chase away his nightmares.

Alfred found himself praying to the dawn, unsure if God would save him any longer, or if He even cared.

* * *

**~TCS~**

* * *

Arthur was losing sleep these days. Guilt ate at his heart, gnawing until the pain overwhelmed him to the point that he felt the sting of tears threatening to spill over.

There were plenty of things in Arthur's life he felt guilty about: summoning demons, terrifying his family, having to admit he rejected God to his parents, the occasional theft. But those thing paled in comparison to the knowledge that he was slowly killing Alfred.

Not just killing him, but actually picking him apart bit by bit. He tore his flesh as he could rend his mind, with jagged claws and horrific nightmares. Even the wounds Alfred hid beneath the heavy sleeves of his jacket, Arthur could see. The darting eyes, dark bags beneath, the pale skin and sallow face spoke volumes. Yet only Arthur could hear it. Only Arthur knew the truth.

And looking over at Alfred now, his heart clenched with a pang of anguish.

The jock was slumped in his seat, eyes hood and clouded by exhaustion. They sluggishly responded, barely following their calc teacher's motions as she gesticulated to her examples on the board.

Where most students were taking notes, Alfred didn't even bother to lift his pen. He'd long since given up. Flipping through his binder, it was painfully apparent how things had so rapidly degenerated. So many details he'd written down in thick block letters, perfect calculations, not a single mistake. As he turned pages, his hand writing became increasingly illegible. Some steps in his longhand had been crossed out. Strange symbols and phrases he never remembered writing were deeply scratched to the point of tearing the paper in some places. By the end, the pages were nothing but scratches and crudely drawn messages to flee.

Furrowing his brows, Alfred took up his pen, determined and furious all at once. But as he tried to copy down the advanced problem presented on the board, he felt a sharp pain between his temples. His hands began to shake, tremors wracking the muscles so badly that he couldn't keep his grip. The pen clattered to the desk, rolling away to clatter to the floor.

Alfred loosed a tired sigh, and did not bother to retrieve the pen. What was the point? He set his sweaty palms on his thighs, feeling queasy from attempting to focus.

Arthur saw it all. He watched that flicker of hope and fierce stubbornness flare in Alfred's once bright eyes and had hope as well. The jock wasn't entirely broken. But that fantasy shattered in an instant.

Watching the younger submit to that sense of defeat welled up a terrible feeling of guilt. The dim glaze over Alfred's eyes worried him more than he cared to admit. He'd seen the slowly withering life drain from him, seen the fight in him crumble away. And watching Alfred die slowly was absolute misery.

But there was little he could do now. Being well across the room from the jock in the middle of calculus class wasn't exactly the best position to be in if he was going to help Alfred. But come lunch period, Arthur would be waiting in his usual spot for him.

Ever since Arthur had first given him a cigarette to calm his nerves, Alfred had returned each day to sit beside the atheist beneath the shade of the bleachers. They smoked, occasionally talked, but usually they remained in a comfortable silence that had started to grow on the emerald-eyed man. He'd never felt an fondness to Alfred's healthy personality. The jock was crude, angry and just about the most insufferable bastard Arthur had ever met.

But a quiet, reflective Alfred was one Arthur had grown fond of. Alfred no longer had any qualms about leaning against the other blond's shoulder or sharing a cigarette. That time spent hiding away from prying eyes had given Arthur a new lease on Alfred. The teenager had a quiet, thoughtful side to him. It was the side Arthur recognized as a long-buried genuine one. He could only imagine how long it had been entombed beneath the exterior Alfred had flaunted for so many years. In fact, the emerald-eyed man began to wonder if maybe that facade the jock flaunted was just too deeply embedded to even be a lie anymore. People changed. And sometimes it wasn't for the better.

But as he sat beside the slumped figure of the man occupying his thoughts, doubt bayed an absolutism. The day had passed rather quickly, Arthur being entirely distracted by his worries to even notice.

Alfred grunted, glancing at his unsure friend through glazed and tired eyes. He lazily reached over the older's lap to pull a box of cigarettes from Arthur's backpack. The blue-gray eyes flickered to Arthur again briefly as he put the stick between his lips. Handing him his good lighter, Arthur then leaned back to examine Alfred's slouched figure.

"You're not eating," he observed, noting just how baggy the jock's beloved jacket had become. Once upon a time it had hugged his lean obliques and showed off his broad shoulders. Now it hung on him as it were a size too large.

"I'm never really hungry," Alfred retorted, puffing a breath of smoke.

"You need to eat," Arthur insisted, "you're withering away."

"I'm on a diet," Alfred lied, inhaling another burning breath.

"You're lying."

"Who are you to accuse me of that?"

"Dieting helps you lose weight, it doesn't turn you into a skeleton."

"I'm not that thin."

"But you're getting there."

"Hardly."

"Alfred-"

"I'm seriously done with this conversation," Alfred interjected, huffing out a coughing breath. Smoke curled from his lips as he choked on the tar and smoke clogging his lungs.

The emerald-eyed man sighed, lighting his own cigarette and resigning to the silence that lingered once Alfred had quieted. Even as he focused on the burning tip of the stick, he could clearly see the younger beginning to nod off without a lack of stimulation. He'd long since finished his cigarette – he only ever smoked one – and had mashed the stump into the dewy grass. Hooded eyes gazed into some hellish world far away, yet Arthur could imagine the horrors Alfred's eyes always saw. He'd seen them himself, after all.

"Did you sleep last night?"

"A little," the jock returned meekly, passivised by his exhaustion.

"The nightmares keep you up?"

Alfred nodded without a word. He didn't need any. Arthur already knew. Over the many weeks he'd slowly come to develop this bond with the atheist he'd told Arthur many things. He'd told him about his hallucinations, his nightmares, his suffering. All things he'd never thought to tell any of his other friends. Only Arthur had this terrifying and morbid privilege. Seeing the inner horrors of Alfred's mind created a whole other scope of fear, one that matched even Arthur's old experiences with out of control demons looking for prey to drain dry.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

This time, Alfred shook his head to mean no, but he watched Arthur with eyes so unsure that Arthur gently curled his arm around the younger's shoulder, hugging him briefly. Alfred leaned into him, shutting his eyes to the bleakness and turning inward on the soft warmth Arthur roused in the younger's heart.

"Do you want to sleep a bit? I promise I'll wake you for next period."

Alfred's eyes reluctantly fluttered open, protesting being forced to process visual information after being teased with rest. But the prospect of a nap sounded so incredible that he was quickly over it and offering the older an uneasy smile of acceptance.

Arthur was still a bit of a foreign concept to Alfred. The emerald-eyed man was reserved, but was sensitive to just how much pain Alfred was in, and acknowledged it instead of running away. He couldn't have been more grateful. But still, the jock was not one to expose anything about himself other than his muscles and charming smile.

Yet he'd somehow found himself spilling every horror and secret to the artist for the past few weeks. Arthur listened quietly, never questioning the morbid and grisly things Alfred described in sickening detail. He didn't even have to ask why Alfred was like this, jumping at every shadow, exhausted beyond description. Alfred told him everything.

He'd told Arthur about his new issue with drinking, and how his job had fired him. He'd stumbled in too many times hungover, or still drunk and been asked to leave and not come back. The emerald-eyed man had simply squeezed his shoulder to reassure him, but Alfred leaned into it. The result had been another soft kiss, one placed on his cheek with a tenderness Alfred didn't quite fathom.

It had confused him, left his insides churning. Alfred had felt sick thinking that maybe, just maybe, he liked those kinds of kisses from Arthur. The notion of Arthur being a man had repulsed him though. The tumultuous clash of loathing and liking had done nothing to ease the jock, and he did the only thing he knew to cure the ailments of terrible feelings: drink.

Alfred had taken to heavy drinking. It was just another coping mechanism, and automated response to grab the first bottle of liquor he could from the cabinet. Cigarettes soothed his nerves, but rum always took the pain away. And it replaced it with a feeling of courage, something the teen missed terribly.

Unfortunately, its adverse effects were steep. He was left miserable every time he woke up, needing to drink to clear the taste, and he also hated the way his parents would glare at him when they came home to empty bottles. For some reason, they'd ceased trying to lock the cabinet and punish their son. Maybe they saw he needed it. Maybe they didn't care. Alfred didn't know. They weren't exactly home enough to properly punish him anyway.

But right now, Arthur had his arm around the jock's broad shoulders. Alfred couldn't help but lean against him. Eventually, as his eyes grew lidded and heavy, he found himself slipping. He curled up on his side, head in Arthur's lap. The emerald-eyed man didn't say anything, but smiled down gently at hurting teenager. He looked so small like this, clinging to Arthur's leg despite the very fact Alfred claimed this sort of thing would damn him straight to Hell.

Brushing back the younger's bangs, Arthur carded his fingers through Alfred's hair to soothe him into sleep past restless thoughts of damnation.

"There's nothing wrong with this," he called softly, trying to reassure Alfred. He felt Alfred's grip on his jeans tighten in momentary protest before his blue-grays closed without any more fight.

It wasn't alright, Alfred knew, but in such a state he couldn't muster up any form of defiance. He refused to admit that he liked this. He didn't want to give in to the idea of liking the feel of Arthur's fingers in his hair, or the generous warmth of his body. He didn't want to be like this, but he needed Arthur's support. He needed Arthur.

The chime of Arthur's voice again left Alfred coaxed into listening. The older had a calming voice, his tone always soothing as it graced the jock's ears. He'd never thought of Arthur's melodic voice until these revolting feelings had started to arise. But now it was hard to forget the way every word seemed to flow off his tongue with a serene grace he never would have attributed to a man prior to the atheist above him.

"That calc project is due in a few days. Do you want me to come to your house and help?"

Alfred briefly nodded, letting his eyes slip shut again as familiar hands began to groom through his hair again. He'd forgotten about the stupid project they'd been assigned a week or so ago. They'd been given random partners: Alfred ending up with Arthur. A side of him had been grateful, while the other felt unease worm into his gut.

While Arthur's house was closer, it wasn't entirely welcoming, and so he'd never invited Alfred over to work there. His brothers would probably have just pestered them away from doing work anyway.

He'd been over to Alfred's house a few times, but never stayed long. He'd wanted to, honestly. Alfred always had the most heartbroken expression he tried to hide when bidding the older goodbye, and it shredded the emerald-eyed atheist's heart to see it. Knowing Alfred would be disgusted with himself later hurt just as badly. The jock had even admitted that fear to him.

"I'll just follow you home after school then. Get some sleep," the older encouraged. It was unnecessary though, as Alfred had already dozed off before even hearing Arthur's intended route.

* * *

**~TCS~**

* * *

"You can just toss your bag on the floor. It's fine," said Alfred as he took his own advice. His backpack ended up dashed to the floor, his keys following after, and finally his jacket.

Arthur winced. Exposed, Alfred's arms were bandaged in some places, but the majority of the skin was raised with grisly scars. Tunneling trails wormed under his skin by black talons had left tough, pale lines running from his knuckles to the crook of his elbows.

He'd seen it all before – Alfred's legs were just as bad – yet it never failed to leave him hurting as if struck by a blow.

The teenager must have noticed his staring because he started rubbing at the scars, clearly uncomfortable with the attention.

"You've seen them already."

"That doesn't make it any easier to see."

"It's just been a rough time for me," Alfred tried to excuse as he sat down. He'd lied to Arthur about them all along. 'Self inflicted', he'd said when the inevitable question had been asked weeks ago. Arthur had been upset, distraught rather. But he'd been conscious enough not to yell at the hurting teenager. He'd been gentle, examined the wounds with a quiet attentiveness. Alfred swallowed hard as he forced himself to admit it, but it was probably at that exact moment that he knew Arthur meant more to him than he cared to allow.

The emerald-eyed man sat down on the bed as well, removing his shoes and tucking them neatly away.

"I know." Arthur reached for his backpack, pulling out both of his thick calculus books. He knew the truth behind those marks. He knew Alfred thought the atheist would abandon him if he tried to tell the truth. The idea wasn't far-fetched though. It was about impossible to guess people's reaction when you told them you were being hunted mercilessly by a demon, but most wouldn't even believe you to begin with. Arthur knew that pain as well.

"We don't have to talk about it."

"Thank you."

"Let's get this done. I'd rather finish this quickly and get it over with.

"Agreed," Alfred affirmed with the quirk of a smile on his lips. This was almost normal, a life he missed more than anything. Just sitting on his bed doing homework with a friend. He could almost imagine that the mark on his hand didn't burn or that every shadow was just the absence of light.

They spent a few hours working through the project on advanced integrals, occasionally arguing over answers, marveling at shortcuts they looked up on Alfred's laptop, and occasionally brushing hands. Arthur would pretend nothing came of it, but Alfred squirmed, feeling a bit flustered upon realizing Arthur found this totally natural while the jock had been taught it was a one-way ticket to Hell his whole life.

But as they finally finished, Arthur triumphantly scribbling down their final conclusion, Alfred relaxed. He lazily shoved their textbooks off the bed and flopped to the mattress.

To his absolute horror, Arthur laid down beside him.

"Alfred?"

"H-huh?"

"Is this alright?"

The younger swallowed hard, gulping for the air that refused to fill his lungs. He tried to avoid Arthur's eyes, but it was hard when he was so drawn to the deep green irises, as fiery and beautiful as green glass lanterns. He found his gray eyes meeting them, entrapped, mesmerized.

"No," was his automatic response, and in truth probably the most honest. He had such shallow notions of this concept of right or wrong when it came to Arthur. Maybe it was morally wrong, but it felt easier to lie beside the young man, left strangely warmed and safe, rather than hide in the shame of sin and denying himself that feeling. It was the tempest of these wills that made him ill and his stomach rebellious.

Arthur hadn't expected that response. But with a soft smile, he raised his hand to brush his knuckles over Alfred's cheek. They stayed like that for some time, only inches apart but neither moving to close the gap. Hand gentle, the older continued to groom his fingers over Alfred's flushed cheeks, slowly working back to card through his hair.

Unsure of how long he remained quiet and content beneath his friend's touch, Alfred eventually had to voice his concern. Arthur had to go home, despite how much the teenager found himself terrified by the idea. He'd felt secure this entire time. There had been no nightmarish claws reaching out for him, no creatures screaming and laughing at his pain, not darkness to crawl beneath his wounds.

"Is it late?"

Arthur pulled out his phone, glanced at the time, then shoved it back in his pocket.

"It's almost midnight."

"Shit!" Alfred exclaimed, sitting up. Surprise lit his features as Arthur remained where he was, looking perfectly comfortable lying on his side on the jock's bed. "Wait, you're not leaving?"

"Do you want me to?"

The innocent question caught Alfred off guard. His mind whirled for a sensible answer, but nothing came of his jammed thinking ability.

"C-can you?" he stuttered, scared of the words as they left his mouth. His gut twisted realizing he couldn't call them back. Things couldn't be unsaid no matter how much he wished it.

"Your mother isn't going to be horrified, is she?"

Alfred slowly shook his head, shakily pulled out his phone, and texted his mother to inform her of Arthur staying over. His mother rarely had a problem with friends over, though she'd never met Arthur before.

"What a-about your parents?"

"I'm eighteen. They ceased caring where I stayed so long as I had a roof over my head."

"O-oh."

Reaching a hand out, Arthur grasped the younger's forearm, coaxing him back down as they were before. He watched the jock's Adam's apple bob with a nervous swallow as he seemed more aware of the intimacy of them lying so close.

"This doesn't make you a bad person, Alfred. Please, I don't want this to be so uncomfortable for you. I just want to help you."

"I know. I-I just-" Blowing out a harsh sigh, Alfred suddenly leaned up. He braced his hands on either side of the atheist's head, startling him into silence.

"I j-just don't understand what's g-going on! I want you and then I d-don't! I can't tell if y-you disgust me or make me feel happy a-again! My whole life's a fuckin' mess and you're just one more goddamn c-complication!" He was panting harshly, frustrated breaths brushing against Arthur's smiling lips. The boy looked as if he could cry with the sheer aggravation of his confused emotions and shattering psyche.

"It's confusing, I know. It's painful and hard to fathom. Everything you're going through, I understand. But this shouldn't have to be something else plaguing you."

"But h-how do you know! How could you possibly u-understand!"

"Ssshh," Arthur cooed, lowering Alfred back down to the bed on his side. The older shifted close to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder in a comforting gesture. "I just do. And even if you don't believe me, I'm still here for you. I'm not going away. You'll still come sit through lunch period with me. I'll still buy you cigarettes and listen to your fears. I'll still give you a few minutes to sleep and help you with your schoolwork. So just don't worry about how or why I am or do what I do. Stop fighting yourself over this. Please?"

Breathing deeply, Alfred slowly quieted. He said no more, but nodded in resignation. Arthur pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, noting with an inner glee that Alfred sighed acceptably against the touch.

But exhaustion was quick to drag Alfred down again, and within minutes the gray eyes of the teenager slipped closed as he slipped under sleep's hold. Arthur shook his head, marveling at how the younger managed to practically yell his frustration at Arthur one second, then be snoring quietly the next.

But the peace gave him a moment to just be close to the broken man he'd entirely destroyed. It brought a terrible pain to his heart, welling it with a familiar guilt.

As he clutched his chest, a sudden flare of scalding pain lashed his skin. The emerald-eyed man bit down on his tongue to stifle a scream at the intense flare. Wrenching the collar of his shirt down, the bright glare of a red and black mark slashing his chest appeared. Arthur grit his teeth as he staved off the demon's dissatisfaction of interrupting its hunt.

The pain was brief though, just a reminder that Arthur was entirely powerless to stop the demon, but it spoke volumes to the atheist. Panting as the demon's mark retreated, leaving his seared skin to cool, Arthur looked upon Alfred's peacefully sleeping figure.

At the very least, he'd give the defenseless teen one night of quiet rest. And that was enough for Arthur to ease himself back to Alfred's body and sleep beside the doomed man.

* * *

**The finale is next guys. Thanks for all the support and reviews! You guys are great! ^^**

**The final part will be announced on my tumblr. So if you want to make sure you see it on time, follow me for updates on all my stories! Hellieace. tumblr. com**


	7. Part VII

**The Clockwork Stranger**

**Part VII  
**

**WARNING: Explicit rape, gore, and violence. Homophobia and offensive terminology. Demonology, anti-religion, sacrilege, satanic worship and demon summoning. Flaying and animal abuse/cruelty. Extreme language, drug/tobacco, and alcohol abuse.**

**Well, this is it guys. The final piece. This is where a lot of these warnings come into play. Please read at your own risk.  
**

**I want to thank you all for reading/reviewing this story. It's been a grisly ride, and one of the most challenging pieces of fanfiction I've ever written to date. I appreciate all of the interest it's generated, and hope the finale can live up to par.  
**

**Reviews:  
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**PiffBee: I'm guessing you found it. ;)  
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**Tori-Colour-Basta: I do hear it from my adorable fanbase, but it's still music to my ears. :3 Awwww, don't apologize! Feels everywhere is not something I take offensively! :D  
**

**Ahr0: Babe, I just wanna say thank you for all your support. You're amazing. :)  
**

**BritishTraveller: Thanks!  
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**RawrGodzirra: Eeek, I know! Reading horror is something I generally avoid myself, but I'm really glad you found and read this anyway!  
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**VengefulMothSlayer: There's just not much Artie can do. :(  
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**Through the Loop: Thank you darling!  
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**cftcft9090: Oh gosh, I think it really started to be actual coherent writing around the end of sophomore year in high school. But I was RPing with authors and amazing writers since middle school, so I was definitely watching and learning all that time. Writing I've been doing for about 2 years now. :)  
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**ChibySmiley: It's just not something anyone can fix. :(  
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**Team SasuNaruHina: Sure thing~  
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**ArtieKat1256: Sleep is for the weak! xD awwww, thank you darling! I do try for that 'mixing it up a bit' factor.  
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**United-States-of-wwhatever: And I love you, awesome reviewer. ;)  
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**NekoNinja-Chan: Haha. I'm glad at least someone is cool with sad endings! XDDD Yeah, I couldn't let my cats sleep in my room the night I wrote that scene. o_0  
**

**And here it goes, the finale. Enjoy.  
**

* * *

**The Clockwork Stranger  
**

**Part VII**

* * *

Waking up to Arthur had become a routine. It had started at church, persisted through naps in the shade of the bleachers, and now had migrated to the occasional waking to soft pillows and a downy blanket. A month of an agonizingly slow relationship developing had been awkward, frustrating really, but Alfred found he didn't mind. It was the strangest thing.

Brought to the waking world by the quiet rustle of Arthur's breathing against his cheek left an odd, unidentifiable emotion welled up in his chest. It wasn't necessarily bad, in fact, he rather liked it. However, leaving it without a title made him uneasy, so unable to explain himself to the older. He preferred having the distinct safety net of Arthur's knowledge and comfort. But as his eyes slipped open on that hazy June morning and alighted upon the atheist beside him, he found his insecurities evaporating like the morning dew dolloping his lawn as the sun rose.

Arthur was still asleep, curled up on his side. His legs were pulled up, an arm tucked against his chest, while the other was lightly draped over Alfred's side. His fingers were knotted softly in the fabric of his shirt, being gently pressed into his flank. The sleepy teenager glanced down to the slender hand on him. It wasn't unfamiliar, nor unwelcome. Quite the opposite; Alfred couldn't imagine falling asleep beside Arthur without the comfort of that touch. It was simple and innocent, just a subtle way to remind Alfred that Arthur was still there, safeguarding him from the hellish realm of his dark nightmares. It was the only time he was ever allotted to rest these days, and besides that respite, he cherished a closer moment to Arthur where he didn't have to feel repulsed by himself or by the very notion of liking Arthur's presence so close.

Braving himself, the gray-eyed teenager skittishly inched closer. He worried his lip with nervous apprehension as the sheets crinkled beneath him as he settled mere inches away from the older's face. Looking upon his slender face, tranquil in sleep, had his throat closing up uncomfortably. Mustering up as much courage as he could, Alfred pulled himself even closer. His hand tentatively outstretched to graze the older's bare shoulder. The feel of the smooth curve beneath his fingertips wasn't new. They'd touched before, and yet it still gave him shivers, sweat beading on his forehead. Tracing the lean muscle beneath supple skin, Alfred leaned even closer. As courageous as he'd ever felt, the teenager gingerly pressed his cheek to that warm skin. There he lingered, head resting against the shoulder he was so familiar leaning against. He was just about settled, still queasy, but glad he'd found some form of courage, when Arthur's eyes fluttered open. A lazy yawning mumble escaped him as the haze over his emerald irises slowly cleared to focus on Alfred. He grinned at the amusing look of paralyzed panic written all over the younger's face.

"U-um, g-good morning?" Alfred croaked out, voice breaking. Arthur chuckled, tightening his arm around the younger's middle.

"Morning," another yawn, "did you sleep well?"

Alfred nodded, swallowing nervously. He didn't understand how Arthur found the confidence or the comfort level to stay perfectly calm while so close, but it amazed him. The younger was nearly choked by uncertainty, yet Arthur was smiling peaceably. Alfred almost admired him for it, or maybe envied. He'd have given anything to erase this awful, gut-turning feeling of nausea that overshadowed those quiet moments he spent with the emerald-eyed man.

The older seemed to sense his anxiety - as he always did - and patted his back. The motion wasn't unfamiliar, but it wasn't the true support he wanted in securing these upwelling emotions he found so hard to control. He wished he could have blamed it on his age and left it to rest, but it wasn't that simple. He didn't feel this way around just anyone. There was no man or woman that quite took Alfred's breath away or made him so damn confused like Arthur did. Melting against the soft gaze of simmering emeralds had become so commonplace, Alfred didn't even fight it anymore. Falling into gemstones like those was easy and pleasant, and Arthur not once burned him with that intense gaze since offering him a cigarette so long ago.

It was hard to imagine time, Alfred realized. Things were so long and so agonizing, yet it had all slipped through his fingers as fickle and as intangible as smoke. Dashed by pain, and soothed by Arthur's therapeutic hands and tranquil voice, the gray-eyed teenager had known a paradox in perceiving time. Everything was too brief and too long all at once.

He didn't like to think about it too much though, and instead rested passively against Arthur's shoulder. Remembering a time in such hell wasn't anything he wanted to relive, ponder or even remotely educe. Not while with Arthur, at the very least. He didn't want to associate those memories with the few good ones he had been gifted from the older.

"No nightmares, then?"

Alfred shook his head, shifting when Arthur moved from beneath him. The emerald-eyed man sat up at the edge of the bed. He tugged at the thin cotton of his A-shirt before running a hand through his unmanageable hair. The younger looked up at him, eyes tracing the fine arch of his spine as Arthur gazed at the window across from him. The curtains were drawn, but their opaqueness wasn't enough to deter the rising sun and allowed for the light to filter through, casting a glow on the atheist. The golden tips of his hair shimmered, and when Alfred touched his back, Arthur glanced down at him. The light caught the bright hue of his eyes and illuminated his slender face. Alfred's throat tightened up, choking of any response to the curious smile on the older's lips.

When Alfred didn't speak, Arthur lazily rose, then walked to the window. Releasing the locks, he pushed it open a bit and the whistle of a warm wind ghosted through the gray-eyed teenager's room. Perching himself on the sill and finding his cigarettes on the nearby dresser, Arthur beckoned Alfred over with a casual gesture.

Stretching out his long limbs, Alfred barely dragged himself out of bed to take a seat opposite of the older. He leaned his head back against the wall, rubbing tiredly at his eyes and sending his glasses askew. Alfred heard the click of a lighter before listening to Arthur exhale quietly out the open window. Arthur tapped his shoulder with the Marlboro box, offering him one as well. Alfred turned it down by simply shaking his head to mean no.

"You're awfully quiet this morning," Arthur observed, taking a long drag on the burning stick. Alfred shrugged, letting his gaze linger on the smoke curling from the tip of Arthur's cigarette. Arthur didn't push the subject, but eventually Alfred relented, unable to resist spilling his troubles to the man who would always listen.

"I feel nauseous, like something bad is going to happen," Alfred admitted, wringing his hands nervously. A terrible sense of doom lingered over him, far worse than his usual discomfort from pain and fear of judgment. It had his chest feeling constricted, and like his insides were being jostled about roughly.

Emerald eyes traced the grimace on Alfred's visage with pity. This wouldn't last much longer, and Alfred's suffering would be over soon. But even if he knew that, it didn't make it any easier to accept that there was nothing he could do to save the jock. He'd bayed the demon as long as he could, used every enchantment, spell and charm to try warding it, but nothing would stop its hunger. It had decided its prey had been softened plenty, and now hunger won over malicious intent. Naturally, it wouldn't appear with Arthur's conscious will holding it back, though it did fight. And as if the beast could hear his thoughts, a sudden flare of pain burst across his chest.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur coughed against the burn in his lungs and the fiery claws that squeezed his chest. He braced his hand on the windowsill, doubling over as his body shuddered from a wracking coughing-fit. Alfred was instantly beside him, an arm on his back and a hand pressed to his chest. He rubbed circles against the thin cotton of the older's shirt as he coughed miserably. It only ceased when he collapsed entirely against the half-open window, blood smearing the bottom glass from where it had flecked his lips.

He had to swallow down a mouthful of the iron taste as Alfred worried over him. The younger pressed close to him, concern etched in his visage and cracking his voice as he spoke.

"A-Arthur? What h-happened? Are you okay?"

The older smirked, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth once he had his breathing under control. Alfred's disquiet and fretting hands really were welcomed. Arthur had suffered these pains and fits many times alone; being beside someone that he hoped truly cared made the ordeal a bit less painful.

"I'm fine," Arthur managed, straightening up and smoothing his hand across the jagged burn across his chest. Even though the shirt concealed most of it, he knew the skin would still be an angry crimson over the surface. The demon was angry. It didn't like Arthur getting in the way so often these days, and thought to lash out.

Alfred laughed nervously, unsure if Arthur really was okay, or if he was simply covering up an issue. Coughing up blood was something Alfred knew tended to mean traumatizing pain from his own miserable experiences, and he couldn't help but be concerned. But when the older simply shrugged it off as if it were nothing, Alfred tried to quell his churning thoughts with a pathetic joke.

"Should really quit smoking. Wouldn't have to deal with that anymore."

"You're one to talk," Arthur retorted, eyes narrowing a moment before his gaze softened once more. "Really, I'm fine. Thank you." The older carefully sat up straight, mentally cursing the untimely attack. It had stung, but that wasn't his ultimate concern. Alfred's safety was what preoccupied him the most. But he couldn't admit that to Alfred. It had been the hardest part of this ordeal. Alfred didn't understand how or why he was hunted. He didn't know the only man that could fathom his pain was the one causing it. And looking down at the deep mark embedded in Alfred's hand flicker momentarily only reminded him that Alfred could never know. The gray-eyed teenager would shatter before the truth, and Arthur selfishly knew he couldn't bear to watch that.

"Yeah, sure," Alfred mumbled, trying not to look so disquieted. Silence divided their same worries like a craggy fissure. They both watched the world below from the half-open window with eyes far away, both thinking of death in the most morbid of fashions. Arthur finished his first cigarette, smoked another, and was about to light a third to hopefully drive away his anxiety when Alfred stopped him. It came in the strangest of ways too. The younger gingerly touched Arthur's hand, fingers curling against his palm.

"Alfred?"

"My mom's gonna be mad if my room smells like smoke," said Alfred, unwilling to look him in the eye. The atheist distinctly noted the faint blush creeping high on Alfred's cheeks, and grinned in turn.

"Your mother seems rather lenient. What with letting me to stay the night so often. Does she suspect anything?"

"There's nothing to suspect," Alfred quickly retorted, suddenly withdrawing his hand as if he'd been bitten by a venomous snake. "I'm not gay."

Arthur smiled. He'd been expecting that response. After all, it was the same one Alfred gave him everyday with such force and persistence that Arthur was inclined to believe him. Maybe Alfred really wasn't attracted to men at all. The emerald-eyed man actually would have preferred that. It only made the fact that Alfred seemed to like him that much more meaningful. It had been a long time since Arthur had felt special enough to be someone's only. Even if he wasn't naturally sentimental, it still left him feeling a peculiar warmth squeeze his heart.

"What are you grinning for?" Alfred snapped, despite the fact that there was no real bite to his tone.

"You."

Alfred stammered, mouth open to speak but no words escaping him. The bright scarlet painted across his cheeks and the tips of his ears had the older grinning even broader. Arthur picked up where the younger seemed to have left off before his sudden retreat. Sneaking his hand into Alfred's, he twined their fingers before he could object. The gray-eyed teenager tried to jerk his hand back, but relented rather quickly. He simply let Arthur hold his hand without any more objections other than reaffirmation that he was most certainly not homosexual grumbled on his breath.

"Is there a reason then that you invite me to sleep with you then?"

"Don't fucking say it like that! You make it sound like we're having sex or something!"

"You didn't answer me."

"I-I don't know."

Arthur moved closer, brushing his nose against the younger's. To his surprise, Alfred didn't move away, but shocked him instead. He leaned his forehead against Arthur's eyes hooded as he relaxed himself. He just wanted this feeling of unease to pass. He just wanted to feel comfortable with Arthur like the way he felt safe when dozing in the shade.

"You still look exhausted," Arthur observed, cupping Alfred's cheek to roll his thumb over the dark bags beneath the younger's gray eyes. The younger merely blinked, unwilling to admit that he hadn't known the feeling of being rested for months.

"You want to sleep in a bit longer?" Arthur suggested, his fingers gently feeling over Alfred's jaw. The younger bit his lip, desperately wanting to say yes, but entirely embarrassed of admitting that weakness all over again. Even if it was just Arthur, Alfred had never let go of his hatred for being so weak before the slighter man.

He was infinitely grateful when Arthur knew his answer without words, and tugged him to his feet. Guiding Alfred back to the bed, the older stretched out for Alfred to lie down beside. Gingerly resting himself down, Alfred set his head on Arthur's slender chest, the echo of his steady heartbeat a metronome coaxing him to oblivion.

"Your mother isn't going to walk in on us and be horrified, is she?"

"She hasn't yet, has she?"

"No, but she tends to be sleeping when we crawl into bed."

"She had to go out for errands today. I doubt she'll be back for awhile. We've got time."

"Good," Arthur murmured, grooming his fingers through Alfred's hair. The soft caressing along his scalp was quick to draw the younger ever closer to a peaceful darkness. "Rest easy, Alfred. I promise your pain will end soon."

But Alfred had slipped under the veil of sleep before he could even begin to process the cryptic words. He slept dreamless, content to wish for that prophecy at its simplistic face-value.

* * *

**TCS**

**Part VII  
**

* * *

Alfred had driven him home after being roused by his mother returning late afternoon. Arthur had nearly had to drag the younger out to the car, shoving the keys into his hands before shoving the jock himself. The ride to Arthur's home had been so tense, Arthur could feel it clinging to them like intense humidity. It had been ridiculously uncomfortable, and at the sight of his home, the emerald-eyed man had breathed a sigh of relief.

Alfred parked the car, reclined back in his seat, and gazed out the windshield for a moment.

It just wouldn't be that simple though. Arthur had seen this coming, knew it was unavoidable, but that didn't lessen the pain as he heard the silent cry for help all over again in the younger's voice.

"Do you really have to go home?"

"Alfred-"

"My mom won't mind if you stay another night!"

"Alfred, please-"

"But it's only Saturday!"

"I know," Arthur sighed, tenderly brushing his knuckles along Alfred's jaw for what he knew to be the last time. It required every ounce of strength in him to not pull Alfred to him. He could have kissed him, held him, given him just one more moment of peace. Seeing the heartbreak in his eyes, unhidden, raw and pleading – it hurt. "But I have to be home. I don't want to intrude on your family."

"You're not intruding! I swear my parents don't mind!"

Arthur had to silence him with a kiss. Lips pressed firmly to the younger's chapped ones, he felt Alfred resist upon instinct for a brief moment. It lasted only a second before Alfred melted under the soft brush to his lips. The younger still had his insecurities, and so Arthur naturally took the lead, but Alfred reached his hand over the center console, fingers knotting the thin fabric of the emerald-eyed man's shirt. He pulled him closer, deepening the kiss and tilting his head so that their noses weren't smashed together. Smiling into the kiss, Arthur glided his hand up to cup the younger's jaw, stroking his cheek as he felt Alfred pour his desperate and hidden affection into their moment.

Alfred still wasn't the best at remembering to breathe in these sorts of situations and before long he was pulling away, harsh pants rattling his chest. Where the younger's eyes were wide from adrenaline, Arthur's were hooded from the bittersweet pleasure. That could very well have been their last kiss.

"Arthur-"

But said man cut him off again. He was nearly over the center console in Alfred's lap as he kissed him again. Fingers curling in fallow-gold strands, Arthur tried to return all that the gray-eyed teen had lost in a single kiss. That last one couldn't be what the older left Alfred with. He couldn't leave him with so much unanswered affection and pleading. He wanted to give Alfred this. He wanted him to remember this kiss, to take it with him to his nearing grave. Alfred deserved that. He needed it. He needed to know that he'd never been alone as the final breath slipped from between his lips. That Arthur was truly sorry.

Alfred seemed scared at first, unsure of where to put his hands as he found the art student straddling his lap, deepening the kiss even more. His lips parted in a moan, and he shivered as Arthur's tongue found its way into his mouth. He was just grateful Arthur moved slowly, his tongue encouragingly stroking against Alfred's. The younger tried to respond in turn, moving to the older's motions and drinking in all of the different yet amazing feelings.

Arthur loomed above him from his position, tilting Alfred's head back to guide their gentle pace. His fingers carded through his hair, the pads of his fingers pressing into his scalp as soothing as always. The soft heat of his body warmed the younger as if they were still curled up in bed together, dozing quietly under thin beams of morning light. Running his hands down the front of Arthur's slender chest, he could almost imagine the downy sheets and pillows beneath them all over again.

Drawing in a quiet, gasping breath, Alfred finally broke away. Gray eyes shimmered with such longing as he met hooded emeralds aglow with affection. He'd never felt this way before. He never would again.

There was no one that could do this to him. There was no one who knew every level, plane and tier of him down to the very core. He'd given his life to Arthur, let him hold and cradle a heart he didn't know he'd wanted held. Alfred hadn't meant for this to happen. But as Arthur placed a lingering kiss to his hair, and wrapped his arms around the younger's neck, Alfred couldn't regret it. All the pain and fear evaporated in that single moment, and Alfred clung to the one man he needed most as if he were the last anchor to Earth. Some primordial instinct told him that he very well may have been, and that this was the last time Arthur would hold him like this. Heart shattering at the macabre epiphany, he buried his face into Arthur's shoulder, afraid to face his fate.

"Please, Arthur-"

But Arthur only shook his head, denying Alfred escaping his doom any longer.

"I have to go, Alfred," he whispered against his ear, quietly kissing it.

"Please stay." The words felt so foreign. He'd never begged someone to stay with him before. He'd never depended on someone like this. This need in his heart, burning his chest, was alien and unnatural to the jock. Yet here he couldn't say the words fast enough as Arthur kept denying him in the soothing tone.

"Stay."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I just can't, Alfred."

"That's not an answer!" The desperation cracked Alfred's voice. Arthur shushed him with a quick kiss, and then tried shifting out of the younger's lap. He found Alfred's fingers gripped tightly at his hips. Wide gray eyes were moistening at the corners, threatening to spill over if the older pried them apart.

Still seated on his legs and back nearly pressed into the steering wheel, Arthur didn't have much place to go while Alfred clung to him. The jock, even in his weakened state, could overpower him, which made forcibly trying to leave a null option. He wasn't inclined to be harsh with Alfred though. There was the dim spark in those gray eyes, once so bright and blue, that told him Alfred could sense it. Letting go now meant letting go forever.

Arthur just wished Alfred could understand that he was only doing what was right. The atheist had started all of this, and it was his duty to finally put it all to rest. Alfred had suffered months and months. It was enough. He needed peace. He needed to rest, and rest eternal.

"Please... just stay. One more night. Please give me one more night."

"You know I can't do that."

"I need you!"

"Alfred, you-"

"Arthur! I fucking lo-"

"No. Alfred, you have to stop." Arthur's tone commanded obedience. He gingerly slid his hands down to Alfred's. Despite the sharp authority to his words, he smiled just as gently as ever at him. He wasn't angry. He really wasn't. But he couldn't let Alfred say it. He couldn't bury this abused teenager knowing something like that. Denying the words denied his heart the shattering impact of such implications.

Alfred didn't fight as the emerald-eyed man pulled his hands away. He watched though, wishing he could just hold Arthur there forever. He had one support, just one thread left keeping him aloft, and he had to watch it fray and snap without being able to stop it.

A choked whimper escaped the blue-eyed teenager as Arthur leaned over to open the car door. Just as the first tear spilled over, Arthur was right there, close again. He kissed the salty tears, caressing his cheek with that comforting touch Alfred needed to survive.

"Sssshhh," he cooed, kissing the corners of his eyes. "It's alright, Alfred. It's alright. I'll always be right here," and he set his hand just above the furious, aching tempo of the younger's heart. "Just think of that. I'm there for you always. Think of me: only me."

Alfred didn't know how to respond. He simply nodded dumbly, and watched with intrepid realization that this was it as Arthur slid off his legs. The older gave a little wave, the saddest of smiles on his lips, and then turned and walked away.

And just like that, Alfred was alone again.

* * *

**TCS**

**Part VII**

* * *

Alfred pitched the empty beer bottle to God-knows-where. He heard it strike something solid and shatter. The exploding glass crackled as it rained upon the ground, adding to the numerous pools of broken shards that littered Alfred's floor.

Slumped against the wall wasn't the most gracious position, but Alfred didn't care. Just as he didn't care as the tight beer cap cut into his hand as he forcibly twisted it open. A bloody palm print smeared the top as he pitched that as well and took a gulp of the foreign beer. It only took him a few angry swigs to swallow all of it down before tossing it just like the others. He'd lost count of just how many, but guessing by the faint twinkling of glass coating his carpet, he guessed quite a few.

He figured it probably would have been easier to grab a larger bottle of stronger liquor, but he'd tried downing a bottle of vodka. He'd had to put it back as it had a pomegranate flavor that made him queasy for some odd reason.

Now though, as he reached for another beer, he found the case empty. He swore under his breath, tipping his head back until his skull smacked the wall, resounding with a painful thump. His throat burned from gulping down the alcohol that fast and he felt his eyes watering again as immense frustration, anger and fear melded into one awful tempest. The dread looming over him and churning his stomach just wouldn't leave. He'd thought the booze would poison him enough to let it go, but it just wasn't enough.

As the black of night crept closer and closer, dimming his room through the closed curtains, it grew worse. He twisted to lean on his side, clutching his weak stomach as bile rose in his throat, scorching him with the burn of acid and the awful taste.

Swallowing it down, the gray-eyed teenager bit his lip, trying to distract himself.

It failed miserably though. The only other thought that dared traipse across his memory was of Arthur. That last kiss still left a lingering bittersweet aftertaste on his tongue, just as bad as the bile and alcohol. It had been the worst goodbye of his life, laced with everything unsaid and Alfred being too choked up to even express what he had needed to. The jock grimaced regretfully at his own weakness. He hadn't meant to cry or beg like that. It had all just come pouring out as he buckled beneath the feeling of death haunting him. It had been as if the demon's cold claws had snaked beneath his skin as Arthur kissed him, like he was bidding him a final farewell. It had broken him. The evidence lay all around, as shattered as the man curled pathetically on the floor.

Needing to forget all over again, Alfred reached for another bottle. His sluggish mind took a moment to remember that there was no more beer for him to choke down. Annoyed, he tipped over the empty case, as if another bottle would be hiding beneath. To his surprise, one had apparently rolled away, and the neck peeked out as he pushed another empty case up.

Just as he grabbed it, a noise caught his attention. Glancing up, Alfred saw that his window was entirely dark. Pitch black blanketed out any light of the moon or stars, and a terrifyingly familiar screech filled his ears. The sound of death-black talons scrapping along the think windowpane, sent shivers down his spine. His body convulsed, and instantly Alfred clapped his hands over his ears, the beer bottle long forgotten.

He cried out in pain as the screeching grew louder and louder, making his heart pound wildly and the mark burn his hand with an intensity he'd never felt before. Writhing weakly, fresh tears streamed down his cheeks as he doubled over. The world tilted with vertigo, and spasms crushed his lungs into a coughing fit. The taste of bile and blood twisted his stomach in revolt, leaving him to heave the foul tasting alcohol he'd drowned his misery in on the floor. A mouthful of blood splattered across his lips but a second later, soaking his lips in the iron-laced scarlet.

And for as quickly as it had appeared, the voice vanished. Dizzy and weak, Alfred dared not look up. He kept his body bowed, shaking like a leaf and begging for an end on his gasping breaths.

Unable to move, he could only flinch as the chilling feel of a sharp talon touched his spine between his shoulder blades. The razor sharp edge skimmed up and down his spine at malignant leisure, just enough to sting, but not enough to slice open his jacket. When the claw halted at the nape of his neck, Alfred was panting from fear. Trembling, he dared to look up.

A shadowy hand struck his face, claws digging into temples and slamming him back, into the wall. The concussive blow left a sharp ringing in his ears, but some primal instinct possessed his arm, picking up the unopened beer, and he lashed out with the bottle clutched in his hand.

He expected nothing less than a fruitless swing at the weaving darkness, but when the bottle connected with something firm and shattered in a burst of watery glass, Alfred was shocked. The darkness shrieked in surprise, startling Alfred from his momentary daze just long enough to regain his flight instinct.

Stumbling to his feet – though faster than expected – Alfred pelted from his room and down the stairs like a madman. His feet snagged and tripped, sending Alfred slamming into more than a few walls. He didn't feel it though. The shocks of pain coursing through his shoulders rolled right off him as if they were nothing. Fear stripped him of every unnecessary sense as he thrust open the door and slammed into the side of his Mustang.

Frantic hands scrambled for keys he knew had to be in a pocket. They kept eluding his shaking fingers, grabbing only at the lining of his pockets. A quivering swear echoed from his choked throat, until at last the warm metal of car keys grazed his fingers. He mashed the unlock button again and again, yanking at the door handle before throwing himself into the seat. Jamming the key into the ignition, Alfred threw the car into reverse and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

The Mustang gave a thunderous roar as it veered sharply at the turn of the wheel. It lunged forward when Alfred put it in drive, still putting the pedal parallel to the floor.

Racing down the nearest open road, Alfred let the growl of the V-8 engine comfort him as the blazing headlights burned away the inching darkness upon approach. It wasn't much, seeing as Alfred watched every mirror and checked every ditch as they raced by for signs of the dark figure.

Nothing. The beast was gone, and Alfred leaned back in his seat, finally breathing a sigh of relief. He let his eyes slip shut for a single peaceful instant before it all collapsed.

Alfred's eyes flicked open just in time to catch the slender figure in the middle of the road before the Mustang swerved. The wheels spun out as the brake was slammed, sending the car onto its side, rolling with the force of its momentum.

The grinding crunch of metal crumbling in on itself and the shattering of glass filled Alfred's ears until a deafening bang robbed him of hearing altogether. A foul burning odor scorched the air, something striking his arms and chest.

The world went black and soundless. And it was slow to fade back in. Things blurred, sounds were distorted. His body hurt, his chest felt crushed, and the cracked sheets of metal and plastic all around was tilted.

It was only as Alfred managed to slump against the door, only to find the hinges destroyed and himself sprawled in the mossy bottom of the ditch, that he realized he was in pain. A terrible scream bubbled up from his throat, the tang of blood bursting across his tongue again. Cheek pressed to the dirt, Alfred was paralyzed, no nerve responding to anything but the acute agony rippling up every muscle.

How long he laid there, he didn't know. Time was measured only in ebbs of the shuddering pain. And after so many, he found the strength to move again. The jock dragged himself up, clawing up his ruined Mustang's crushed frame to find his feet. Once they were beneath him gray eyes searched the darkness. The headlights flickered illuminating the mossy tendrils and grass growing along the side of the road. The light faintly danced on the bark of tall trees of a nearby grove that reached their branches to the cold heavens aloft.

It wasn't any deception upon his dimmed sight that had him fleeing that next moment. But rather, it was the feel of long talons touching the bristling hairs at the nape of his neck that had the teenager fleeing in terror. His feet took him anywhere, so long as it was away from the shadow after his life.

Alfred found himself smacking his shoulder into trees, his feet barely clearing the twisting gnarled roots of ancient oaks as he pelted through the tiny grove. The haze of opaque fog clung to the forest floor, cold and shifting even without a wind to guide it.

The ominous feeling of the thick fog wrapping its tendrils around his shaking figure should have been Alfred's first clue that something wasn't right. It was as if he'd done this before. The way it seemed to appear from nowhere, heavy and blinding, had been unexplainable, so much like a memory he couldn't accurately recall. Gooseflesh slithered across his skin, tainting it like a plague as his heart began to quicken its tempo. Watching the fog loom ever nearer only made it worse.

The second should have obviously been the intense pressure crushing his lungs. The air forcibly left him in a series of wracked coughs that made his throat spasm and jaw lock up. Alfred's entire body heaved, and his insides felt like they were being grinded up, then forced out of his body with every trembling cough. Alfred shuddered, retching more bile and thick, poisoned blood that rose up from his tumultuous stomach. His throat, raw from coughing, burned as a pathetic whimper managed to spill from his wrecked lungs. Flecks of startlingly scarlet blood painted his lips and the uneven, grassy floor as he finally collapsed.

On his knees, Alfred's once sky-blue eyes were a wild tempest of graying cobalt, flung wide in primal fear. Terror gripped his heart, stripping him of all rational thought as his eyes darted about. The blinding fog rolled closer, trapping him, taunting him, reaching for him.

Alfred screamed.

There was nothing remotely human about the shrieking cry. All sense of humanity had been scratched away, peeled back and torn off by rending black claws. Beneath the skin, the raw, pulsing flesh of animalistic terror bled into his nature.

Alfred was suddenly aware of how heavy he felt, and how lost he was. Darkness was all around, moving, crawling, slithering.

A sudden flaring pain drew his whirling attention to focus for a split second. The symbol on the back of his hand glowed a sickly crimson in the darkness, illuminating Alfred's terrified expression. It dusted the fog with a sheen of blood-tinted haze, casting only a minute flicker of light.

And in the eerie blackness, an even darker shadow appeared. Looming in the fog was a slender figure, tall, nondescript. But Alfred's heart ceased to beat a moment. He knew the shadowy thing in the fog all too well. Cut, gritty hands dug for purchase on the blood-splattered roots as Alfred scrambled back.

Thoughts no longer came in words or images. There were no thoughts. Only the spark of firing synapses and hard-wired commands remained. And Alfred's only instinct was:

_run._

Fleeing like a hunted rabbit, Alfred didn't know where he stumbled to, why he went any direction, just what he was seeking. The fog would follow, the shadows would follow. They laughed and howled, galloping beside him on jagged limbs of wet smoke and dark talons.

And Alfred couldn't stop running, no matter how much his legs burned or the muscles screamed for respite. Stopping meant death, but Alfred could only go so far.

An eternity of running left him stumbling around the back end of his church. There was always a door unlocked behind the building. It always had been, too. Alfred took the slightest comfort in that little thing as he barely had the strength to push open the door. Stumbling across the threshold, the fog refused to follow him inside. The stray tendrils dispersed with the rush of clean air as the door slammed shut behind him.

Alfred fell to his knees as he passed the altar. Quivering legs had finally demanded their rest, and had buckled beneath him helplessly. Beyond words, feelings or understanding, Alfred simply tipped his head back, gazing up at the dark beams that crossed the ceiling. On the center beam, a cross was nailed in. It usually glittered from rays of sunlight illuminating the colorful stained glass, but in this pale light it was but a dim silhouette, so dim he didn't even notice that it hung upside down limply from a crooked nail.

But as his gaze shifted back down, he did see a flicker from the shadows cast by the farthest pews. His weary heart instantly thundered to life as the shadows came alive in the shape of a tall man.

There wasn't even time to scream as it rushed him, claws outstretched to finally claim its wounded prey.

It was a morbid thing to watch. Alfred didn't fight it. His arms came up weakly for but a moment before thick tendrils pinned them uselessly above his head. He tried to give a feeble kick, but there was nothing behind it, and it deflected without damage. Arthur had to face it; Alfred was broken.

His distorted vision couldn't be pried away no matter how much he wished it. The emerald-eyed man would have given anything to see this done in a single swipe of talons across Alfred's vulnerable neck. No more pain. No more suffering.

But for a demon that fed on agony, that just wasn't enough. Death was but a single morsel, no matter how delectable; torture was a feast. The physiological hell Alfred had been subjected to had merely been the preening, plucking and preparation. And Arthur could do nothing to keep the beast from gorging himself now.

Alfred was thrown to the ground, his back striking the hard floor with a sickening thud that left Arthur internally flinching. He weakly rolled onto his side, trying to get to his knees, but the demon barreled a claw into his side, slamming him to the ground again. This time, Alfred stayed there.

There was nothing quite like this. This awful view had Arthur's heart twisting in agony and trepidation – not for himself, but for Alfred. The boy shivered, his whole body trembling feebly as an death-black tendril engulfed his ankle, dragging him into the beast's looming shadow. Claws like razorblades dragged up his thigh, piercing deep at the hip. Arthur shuddered at the eerie feeling of the claws dragged across smooth bone and the bloodcurdling scream that tore from Alfred's throat. It was even worse knowing the demon enjoyed every second of it.

The claws tore free, blood dripping a slow crimson ooze that stained his pale thigh as it traced a message into Alfred's flesh. Terrifying sigils, runes carved of flesh, they spelled out exactly the things the beast would do to Alfred, writhing with pleasure knowing Arthur would be forced to watch.

The demon wasted no time. Like a butcher, skilled in the most precise carving, black claws began to cleave away flesh. The powerful muscles of Alfred's thighs unzipped with the slice of talons drawn agonizingly slow down the entire length of his leg. Tendons were snagged and plucked like strings until the frayed ends severed with a snap, a companion scream reverberating through the pews.

Thick tendrils coiled around Alfred's shoulders, forcing them back and back and back until both gave audible, wet pops. Agony flared across Alfred's body, his raw throat howling out bloody screams. The crimson liquid splashed his tongue, choking him as he sobbed. Shoulders wrenched out of place, it hurt even to lay back and submit.

He squeezed his eyes shut, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as if he could will this all away like a bad nightmare. Crying miserably, he gave a protesting whimper as the claws that plucked away the flesh on his thighs shredded his shirt and jeans open. Exposed, humiliation welled up with the agony of the demon's sick pleasure.

Alfred suddenly found himself thrashing as the pointed tip of a bloodstained talon suddenly grazed his entrance.

"No!" Alfred screamed, seething and sobbing as the demon took no notice. He felt the spray of hot blood as the creature tore his insides open, claws scratching at sensitive muscle as a cat might sharpen its nails on a post.

Watching the demon continue to rape Alfred as he pleaded for his death broke Arthur's heart. It was a message to the summoner, one that resounded so deeply, that the atheist knew would never cease to haunt his terrible memories. He'd wanted to give Alfred a real relationship. He'd wanted to know this man, hold him, care for him, kiss him in the dark of night and tuck under his chin. He'd wanted to be Alfred's first time, he'd wanted to show him kindness and the gentle side of himself that he'd kept locked away for so long. But the demon stole it all from him.

"A-Arthur!" Alfred screamed, voice breaking on the pain. It was the one name he thought to call, to beg and plead for salvation. And had Arthur had his own body, he would have fallen to his knees in tears. There should have been cries for God, for Jesus, for an angel on the teenager's lips. Instead, he'd called for Arthur. He sobbed the name like a mantra, trying to recess into his memories. Besides, who else was there to call. As far as Alfred was concerned, God was dead.

He turned his head away as the demon's claws retreated, leaving Alfred's lower half in favor of settling on his chest. More tendrils knotted in Alfred's blood-matted hair, yanking his head back and still. The creep of those dragging talons slithering up his neck and cheek had the gray-eyed teenager's chest heaving from hyperventilation, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. He tried squeezing his eyes shut tightly, whimpering as the sharp point of a talon peeled back an eyelid with such careful precision. When nothing happened, the beast unmoving, Alfred dared to let the other eye slip open.

The beast skewered his eye with the swift jab of a talon. The teenager's lungs were wracked with spasms as he screamed. Blood and spittle seeped from his mouth while he thrashed and screamed and cried. The impaling claw retreated with a sickening sound nearly lost beneath the scrabbling and scream of its meal.

Alfred could do nothing. Nor could Arthur. Both seemed to resign to silence as the monster continued to carve and play with strings of ligaments and chunks of bloody flesh. Alfred could scream no more: blood clogged his throat, burning the raw, damaged vocal cords. His lungs quivered weakly in his chest even as his heart continued to race. Blood stained every inch of his body, trickling in sluggish streams across the contours of his body. And Arthur could only watch in silent suffering, nauseated at the terrible sight laid out before him.

Alfred thought he might want to pray at this point. For what, he didn't know. But anything to end this - even if he was fully aware that God didn't care if perhaps He was still watching - was something. He thought of a simple incantation past the pain. He begged for the dawn and for Arthur.

Alfred thought his call unanswered, resigning to his torture as the demon finally seemed to have had its fill of the blond's agony. It just wasn't as fun when prey stopped squirming and pleading for mercy.

A deep line was sliced open down his torso with surgical precision. The cut split Alfred open like a slaughtered pig, blood and visceral fluid leaking to mingle with the tainted blackness and spilled scarlet life. The beast raised a massive claw before slamming it down on the center of Alfred's chest. Blood splattered from his mouth and the wet crunch of his sternum splitting filled his ears. There was no air or strength left in his lungs to cry out. Only a dying whimper escaped him even as every nerve jolted with the immense pain.

Slotting its talons into the fissure dividing the thick bone, Alfred's ribs were pried apart like the thick pages of a tome being opened up after ages of shelf-life. The crack and pop as each set came apart one by one resounded through the church, echoing like the crackling of glass.

Arthur wanted to cry. Watching fear manifest in the sight of Alfred's exposed heart squirming and pounding left the emptiest ache in his own hurting heart. Even the trembling quiver of his weakened lungs as they strained to draw breath sickened him with a guilty anxiety. The boy already looked dead, and this was the only evidence of life still clinging to him. Arthur wished that terrified heart would quiet, wished Alfred would pass and leave behind this mortal pain.

The demon retreated, surprising Arthur, but as the creature turned its head, he saw the distorted, blinding rays of a rising sun deterring the monster. It gave one last look at its handiwork, high from the pleasure, before vanishing back into the abyss of its resting place.

Alfred gazed numbly at the first shimmers of morning cascading across the stained-glass windows. The dapple of colors were muted by the splatters of blood and gore strewn about the isle and pews. The weak light could not lay color over so much startling scarlet.

Mind and body distant to anything but sheer anguish, he couldn't even consider that he was free of the torture. It still resounded through him. The memories were relived in every twitching muscle and spurt of blood as his heart pumped, straining to keep its host alive. There was nothing but this shape of pain under the sunlight that pressed all of its weight down upon him, crippling hope.

It was only when a figure appeared beside him that Alfred even registered that the outside world existed. Broken vision and the angle of the sun silhouetted the shape of a man. Not the demon's grotesque height, but one that might have been familiar.

"G-god?" he croaked aloud, curious if perhaps the deity he had loved and feared nearly all his life had finally decided to show His face.

"No," came a soft reply, "but I may as well be right now."

The figure sat down, cradling Alfred's head in his lap with a tender touch Alfred could never have forgotten.

"A-Arthur," Alfred choked out, breath hitching. Arthur simply nodded, gently grooming back Alfred's bloody bangs. "Y-you c-cam-me..." A prayer answered.

"Sssshhh," the emerald-eyed man quieted him, unwilling to look anywhere besides the one gray eye that gazed up at him, moistened by fresh tears.

"You... came," Alfred repeated again, a ghost of a sad smile on his bloodied lips.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner."

"Y-you c-came."

"Ssshhhh, please, Alfred. Rest now. It's almost over," he cooed, caressing his bloody cheek. He watched as Alfred gave him a genuine smile, almost lost for how slight it was. But when he tried to glance down to see the extent of his fatal injuries, Arthur held his head still. The traumatized boy didn't need to see it. He felt it all already.

At the silent command, Alfred finally let his good eye slip shut. A familiar, comfortable silence lingered. Alfred swore he could feel the breath of a memory of the warm breeze that would ghost beneath the bleachers and stir the trim grass wash over him. Arthur's warmth and hands soothing him brought him back to a quiet world that let him sleep easy in the lap of a man he'd come to call more than just a friend.

This was their swan song, a still reticence unheard save for between the aching hearts that the other knew too well. Alfred could hear the very beat that had lulled him to dreamless sleep those nights he'd wished insecurity would leave him. It didn't matter now though. The horror he'd felt for slowly falling for Arthur evaporated with each gentle graze of the older's fingertips.

He sighed quietly: his final breath. The end was but a whimper, a moment time would not remember save for the sole survivor of this ordeal.

"Than-nk you..." Alfred managed before Arthur watched the younger's brave heart finally still.

The quiet that descended left Arthur's tears unseen. Alfred was at peace at long last. Without a word, not so much as a whimper, Arthur bid goodbye to Alfred with a gentle kiss to his lips.

His gaze flickered up as he tried to quell the tears that fell down his cheeks in sorrowful streams.

The light of the sun trickled in, casting them in a wash of colors that finally permeated the darkness looming over this place. Something lifted from Arthur's shoulders. Head tipped back, he gazed up at the rafters, seeing past the sturdy roof, beyond the tip of the steeple, high above in a place he found himself hoping existed for Alfred's sake.

"Good night, Alfred. The nightmare is finally over... rest in peace."

* * *

**Thank you all again for read. I'm sorry for the sad ending, but it was inevitable. They each have their own sense of peace at last. :)**

**Anyways, thank you guys. You all are fantastic, and I really encourage you guys to keep a look out for a lot of my other works. This likely won't be the last time I try to wrench out your hearts. ;)**

**You can follow me on tumblr for updates on coming and ongoing works. Especially watch for updates on Ahro and I's collaborative works. :3**

**hellieace. tumblr. com**


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